


Your Big Damn Happy Ending

by FortinbrasFTW



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, Reconciliation, Romantic Comedy, Secret Crush, aka michael de santa's series of george costanza on the boardwalk moments, and other important tags, happy amanda, realizing you're in love with your best friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-15 03:44:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 54,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4591731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortinbrasFTW/pseuds/FortinbrasFTW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately following Ending-C, Michael makes an uncomfortable realization. Aftermath ensues.</p><p>(aka the romcom ending we all deserved)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m in love with my best friend.”

Shit.

It sounds even worse the third time he says it.

It sounds like the kind of thing that should be coming out of _literally_ anyone else’s mouth. Especially some jackass movie-star while he stares all befuddled and handsome at a gorgeous girl while they’re trapped in a convenient thunder-storm. It _does not_ sound like something that should be coming out of the mouth of an exhausted middle-aged fat-ass, sitting alone in his car barely pulled over on the side of a highway, while he stares at the dashboard numbly wondering if he’s actually going to be sick.

The first time he said it the words just popped out, like some giant fucking insect smashing right across his windshield. The second time he said it sounded more like him, like the incredulous disbelief of some friend who yells your words it right back in your face to make sure you heard yourself. Not that it made things better. And now…

“I’m in love with my best friend.”

Four times. Yeah. Not sounding any better.

The sun’s still setting across the bay, filling the car with brilliant pinks and reds, still damn beautiful. It’s not helping. Michael groans aloud, letting his head fall between his gripped hands on the steering wheel. Once. Then again. And again.

“Fuck… fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! FUCK! _FUCK!_ ”

He leans back hard drilling the balls of both hands into his eyes. This isn’t happening. This isn’t fucking happening. He’s tired that’s all. He’s fucking exhausted. And something else too, what do the shrinks call it? Oh yeah. Traumatized.

He’s not thinking straight. It’s been a hell of a damn day. His brain’s going in ten directions at once and just throwing out nonsense that gets stuck under the wheels. After all, who wouldn’t be a little off after mowing down two or three private armies all while running for your life and trying to keep the people you care about the most from getting shot in the face.

Care about the most.

Right.

No. _No._ It’s fine. He’s fine. In big capital letters, that could smash through concrete: FINE.

Michael takes a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Longer on the exhale. Isn’t that the right thing to do? He takes a few more. It’s… working? Fuck who knows.

Michael sighs, dropping his hands back to the steering wheel and opening his eyes. He blinks, turning to glare at the sunset out the passenger-side window. It’s the sunset’s fault. Fucking thing. What does it care? Making everything look all gorgeous and perfect and simple when his life is exactly the fucking opposite of every one of those things.

Shit.

What the hell is he going to do?

Talk to someone. That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? That, or cram it into a lockbox and stuff it away the darkest dustiest corner of your mind you’ve got. And that’s really been working out so well for his this far, hasn’t it?

Talk to someone. Let them sort him out. _“It’s fine Michael, you’re over-tired, and generally a bit of a dumb ass. Don’t worry about it. Just get some sleep and when you wake up it will all be fine.”_ Maybe if someone else says it he’ll believe it. But who the fuck is he going to talk to?

The shrink?

Yeah. Right. Because he’s so fucking understanding. What the hell has therapy done for him this far anyways? Given him a room to scream into? That’s probably worth something. But where is he now for all of that? Maybe screaming is well and good, but do enough of it and all you get is fucking hoarse…

But who else is there? Amanda? Yeah. That would go great. At least she would probably just do the decent thing and put him right out of his misery once and for all. It could be a family activity: burying dad in the backyard. Have a barbecue after. Celebrate finally being free from the crazy bastard who’s forced everyone else to orbit the land of lunacy and murder for the past twenty years. So… not Amanda then.

Franklin?

That poor fucking kid. That’s exactly what he needs, huh? More mid-life crisis dropped on his feet, as pretty and enjoyable as a bucket of raw sewage. Anyways, he’s done enough for them today hasn’t he? He’s probably out doing something normal, like finding some girl or getting drunk off his ass.

Drunk… Huh.

Well. It’s definitely a _bad_ idea, but as far as bad ideas go it’s nothing compared to the last few. Maybe that’s just what he needs, to go sit in some dark space that’s familiar in the way that any bar is. Throw a few back, take some space, take some time, and sort this all out once he’s made it through this record-setting bitch of a day. That’s settled.

He wheels the car back onto the road, and tries not to think too hard about how for such a shitty day, there’s a part of him that he thinks might be feeling better than he has for years.

 

The evening’s settled in heavy and blue by the time he curls back into Los Santos, the shiny body of his car painted with the liquid of city lights. Cars and voices slip by the opened windows, all short mingled bursts of lives that aren’t his, for better or worse. It’s a nice night, plenty warm, even with the windows down. Funny, on nights like this it sometimes felt like the smell on air couldn’t quite choose between the ocean on one side or the desert on the other.

It doesn’t take long to find a bar, in fact the first one he comes across isn’t even a place he knows, but anything will do under these conditions. He snaps the car right up to the curb, climbing out pretty easily for an old man who spent most of his morning fighting a street gang.

The place is as nondescript inside as it was out. It’s pretty much the cliche: wooden stools, simple bar, a few booths in darkened corners. The lights are low, and even though there’s music playing it isn’t loud or obtrusive. There’s a TV playing some game in one corner. It’s not crowded, just a few folks scattered about by themselves or in pairs. No groups, no parties. Classic. Perfect.

He grabs the seat on the end of the bar, hoisting up to lean heavily on the counter.

“What can I get yah?”

Michael looks up. There’s a girl wiping off a glass mug in front of him.

“Whiskey.”

“How much?”

“How much you got?”

The girl cocks a smile. “Ah, one of those.”

“The one of those to end all one of those’s, sweetheart.”

The girl shakes her head, already rummaging under the counter for a bottle. She comes back with the booze and a glass that sets down on the table with a solid familiar sound.

“So?”

Michael looks up at her as she pours. “So?”

“So, what happened?”

Michael gazes back at her. She’s younger, maybe a bit older than Jimmy if he had to guess. Her hair is dark and wild, tied as neatly as possible behind her head. Her eyes are bright in a clever way, and they’re looking back at him. She’s looking back at him. Like she’s listening. Actually listening, not just smiling until it’s acceptable to turn right the other way around. Suddenly, he can’t remember the last time anyone in this town looked at him like that - like they weren’t just waiting for you to shut the fuck up so they could jam their own garbage down your throat just for the sake of hearing it roll of their own tongue.

Michael let’s his mouth open. “I realized something today.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

“Okay, I just…” Michael takes a deep breath. “Know what, it’s ridiculous. I don’t even know what I’m talking about. It’s nothing.”

The girl frowns. She leans on the whiskey bottle where it sits on the counter. “Really?”

“Sure.” Michael takes the first good pull off the glass. The taste of smoke and dying brain-cells hits his tongue, all comforting familiarity. “Why the fuck not?”

She leans forward. She hasn’t walked away yet. That’s interesting.

“Can I tell you something?”

Michael shrugs. “Go for it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Michael looks back at her, narrowing his eyes. “Is that right?”

“That’s right.” She shifts her weight, crossing her arms lightly across her chest with a smile. “It’s not you, though, it’s me.”

“It’s you?” Michael repeats, suddenly more lost than ever.

“I have a knack.”

“A knack?”

“I know when someone wants to talk. Needs to talk. And you’ve got The Look.”

Michael can’t help smiling. “That’s some pretty good barkeeper mojo you’ve got workin’ there.”

She shrugs. “Bar-keeper mojo, growing up with passive-aggressive parent, psychology student insights. Who knows. Either way, it doesn’t hurt my tips.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “Psychology student?”

“Yup. Started grad work a few months ago.”

“Not cheap, huh?” Michael asks, eyeing the bar.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“Got another?”

“I doubt selling my soul would cover it.”

“Well,” Michael takes another slug, rolling the comfortable feel of the glass around his palm. He’s been too busy today to eat jack-shit so the feel of the whiskey is already drifting sloppily into his veins. “You’re in the right town for that line of work. Shrinks round here charge enough to probably pick up ten souls at street prices.”

“Speaking from personal experience?”

Michael snorts. “Oh yeah. I’m an analyst’s wet dream. Too much money to know what the hell to do with it and more narcissistic personality flaws than fucking Lucifer could handle.”

“Huh.”

“‘Huh’ what?”

“Oh, you just don’t really strike me as narcissistic.”

Michael can’t help scoffing. “Well sister pull up a chair and we’ll sort that right out.”

“No, no, seriously. Egotistical. Arrogant. Sure, I could see that—”

“What’s that you were saying about tips?”

“—But not narcissistic,” she continues blithely. “Narcissist’s, are far more interested in listening to themselves talk. You kinda seem like that’s the last thing you want to do.”

“Alright,” Michael says with a shrug, “then what am I?”

“Well,” she shrugs, tilts her head to the side, “no one’s really ‘anything’, are they? I mean people want to be something. That makes things easier. Simpler. But everyone’s _really_ just set of actions and reactions. In the end, I think we’re all just trying to make it through each day in our own way without crumbling completely apart, and it’s that simple.”

Michael takes another drink. “Very optimistic.”

“Just my take.”

“You didn’t answer my question by the way.”

She looks back at him, expression focusing firmly on his. “No, I didn’t.”

“You gonna?”

“You gonna answer mine?”

Michael frowns. “What question?”

“What did you realize today?”

Michael narrows his eyes. He takes another slow drink. “You go first.”

“You go first,” she echoes.

Michael laughs. “What, don’t trust me?”

“Should I?”

Michael sighs, dragging one hand through his hair. “No. No you absolutely fucking should not.”

It’s quiet for a moment. She’s still watching him, arms across her chest, evaluating.

“I’ll go first,” she says finally.

Michael looks up.

“Only,” she continues, “if you tell me what you obviously need to tell someone when I’m done.”

Michael leans back on the stool with a groan. But god, how much better is he really going to do? “Fine.”

“Fine,” she smiles. She takes a step back, evaluating him with what he thinks is more than likely mock-sincerity. Finally, she opens her mouth. “I think you’re a little lost.”

Michael can’t help laughing. He brings his hands together for a few slow claps. “Oh yeah. Tired middle-aged dude wanders into the bar alone. Lost. Good fucking guess.”

“Hey,” she shrugs. “You asked I told you.”

“That’s right, so what beside the glaring cliche makes me seem so ‘lost’ to you?”

She smiles. It’s a small smile: confident, but not cocky. “You look surprised about it.”

Michael frowns. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means… you look like someone who’s been telling themselves for years that the GPS knows exactly what it’s doing. And then, one day, you looked up, saw a sunset, and realized you don’t even know where the hell you’ve ended up after years of twists and turns and all those very clear logical instructions. But hey, maybe despite all that, even if you don’t know where the hell you are, it’s not such a bad sunset after all.”

Michael stares. “Jesus…”

“Not bad?”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Michael takes a longer drink. The generous four fingers of whiskey she’d poured has vanished into a pinky’s worth.

“Alright,” she says. “Your turn.”

He blinks back at her. His tongue feels heavy under the taste of peat and burnt synapses. She smiles back. Waiting. Simple and easy, as if maybe nothing’s quite as complicated as everyone seems so ready to make it.

He takes a deep breath.

“I think I might be… maybe… am… in love with my best friend.” He swallows hard, letting his eyes slip shut tightly. “My psychopathic, immature, mess, of a best damn friend.”

He opens his eyes. Her expression’s hardly changed. “Oh yeah?”

Michael swallows. His voice feels hoarser than it should. “Yeah.”

“Have to admit, I was expecting something worse.”

Michael laughs, but it sounds oddly hollow on his tongue. “You don’t know this friend. Trust me. It’s worse.”

“And I can see that it’s probably complicated on a few levels…” She nods towards the hand he has on his glass. He follows her gaze. His wedding ring stares back at him.

“Yeah. Right. Complicated.”

Everything is fucking complicated. Complicated orbits him like some perpetual damn satellite that pulls the tides wherever the hell it wants with no sense of schedule or reason.

“So… what are you going to do?” she asks.

Michael let’s out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ve got it all sorted out, very clear plan on action. I really look like a guy with a plan, don’t I?”

“What do you want to do?”

The answer swims against his mind faster than he’s ready for. Simpler than he’s ready for.

He wants to watch him stare at the ocean with that expression on his face. That expression… like everything’s fine, like he know’s everything’s going to be fine from now on. Watch him, like that, and know once and for all, it’s true. Watch until the sun slips under the horizon and the darkness doesn’t feel like blindness anymore.

Jesus.

It has been a fucking long day. A long ten years. A long fucking life.

“I want to say sorry,” he answers finally.

“To whom?”

Michael stares down at the thin line of amber left in the glass. “Everyone. I want to apologize until my damn throat dries up and my tongue stops working and everyone’s so sick of hearing it that they actually listen for once.”

“You know, I think there’s a saint named after something like that.”

Michael pulls a tired smile. “I’m no saint, honey.”

“Great. Then stop acting like one.”

Michael looks up. “Excuse me?”

She shrugs. “Stop the pity train. If you want to say sorry, say it. Mean it. Move on.”

“That’s—“ Michael tries to think clearly. “It’s… it’s not that easy. This is deep shit. I mean this stuff goes back years, _years_ \- and how the hell do you even begin to—“

She starts to laugh.

Michael glares up. “What?”

“You’re not very good at apologizing are you?”

Michael’s quiet for a moment. “I… uh— no. Maybe. Guess not.“

“Look,” she leans forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “I’ve seen some pretty scummy folks come through this door, man. I’ve seen the guy who’s cheated on his wife too many times and needs to throw back a few to silence the crippling guilt. I’ve seen the guy who’s realized his life has been sucked dry and is ready to latch onto the nearest, youngest excuse to try and stave off the sense of death. I’ve seen the guy who’s done terrible things, awful shit, and is just looking for a confessional to wipe him clean for another week. _You_ don’t look like any of those things.”

“Then what guy do I look like? Because honestly I’m not convinced all those others don’t fit the bill—”

“You look like you’re in love. Knee deep. And rising.”

Michael feels his guts twist. “And just how’s that look?”

She meets his eyes with a pitying expression. “Fucking terrified.”

Michael closes his eyes. He lets his head fall forward into his hands. “Fuck me.”

There’s a sound nearby. He thinks she’s refilling his glass.

“I thought things were going so well,” he groans. “The family, and the therapy. Everyone was back together. We were finally good. I thought that was it. That it was finally all over.”

“Was it?”

“What?”

“Was everything good?”

Michael leans back. “Everyone was in the house… My kids. Both of them. My wife. Me. That’s new. Fucking miraculous actually.”

“And how’d that happen?”

Michael focuses. Tries to. Suddenly things seem a little off, like nothing fits just right back into the slots like before. “We just… we decided that we have history. That we should keep trying. That there’s things we don’t like - things we hate about each other honestly, but, maybe that’s just… how that is.”

The girl is staring at him.

“What?” Michael asks.

“Does that sound, uh, healthy? To you?”

Michael fumbles. There’s a good answer there somewhere. “It seems like that’s just… the deal.”

“‘The deal’?”

“Yeah, I mean, isn’t that pretty much what everyone gets? Marriages suck. But they keep going. Families fight. But they still sit down to dinner. Isn’t that just the cards we’re all dealt?”

The girl stares at him for a long moment. “No.”

Michael almost laughs. “What do you mean ‘no’.”

“I mean: no. That’s not how that works. That’s how it works for some people sure, maybe a lot of people, especially in this town, but that’s sure as hell not how it’s _‘supposed’_ to work. You think that accepted unhappiness is just what - some American fate?”

“Maybe,” Michael says. It seems like the pieces of the world are getting harder and harder to snap back together. “Sure. Why not? That’s what everyone says right?”

“Then ‘everyone’ is wrong.”

She says it simply. As simply as two plus two is four and Los Santos has an ego problem. She says it like she couldn’t be more sure it’s true.

“Slowly convincing yourself that you aren’t supposed to be happy, slowly forgetting what happiness, real, honest happiness, even feels like, that’s not how you should live,” she says. “That’s not how anyone should live.”

Michael gazes into the space between them. “Maybe… maybe I don’t deserve to be happy.”

“Is that what you think?”

He doesn’t have an answer.

Weird day.

He suddenly has the feeling that he’s looking at the full picture of his life, like it’s some puzzle laid out on a table, all neat and finished, even and complete, only now, as he looks closer, he realizes that even though the edges are straight and the surface is smooth, the pieces are all fucking wrong and the picture in the middle is nothing by a garbled mess after all.

“She…” he starts again, “she said ‘you’re never going to change, but I guess I want to bury you’. That’s the high-point. That’s what there is to look forward to. Stuck. That’s what she said. We’re stuck, and that’s as close to ‘I love you’ as it gets.”

The girl’s expression has gone very serious. “And you… you seriously don’t hear how fucked up that is?”

Michael wraps his hand tighter around his glass. “God it really fucking is, isn’t it? And it’s my fault. It’s my fucking fault.”

“I don’t know if it’s _just_ your fault…”

“No,” he lets his head fall back into his hands. It really is that sort of day. “It is definitely my fault.” Just like every other damn thing.

“So,” she shrugs, “fix it.”

He opens his mouth to argue. Then shuts it again. Maybe he should do that more often. Shut up. What the hell does he have to say anyways? Is it more complicated than that? Does it have to be? Maybe it just… doesn’t.

“Yeah. Fix it.” He spins his wedding ring on his finger. “I should… I think I will.”

“Good. Do that.” She’s smiling again, albeit a little more skeptically. “So, what about this best friend?”

Michael groans loudly. “Jesus christ, I don’t think I can touch that yet, not with radioactive protection suit and a hundred-foot pole.”

“Delicate situation?”

“Delicate. Yeah. You could say that. Nuclear meltdown. Also a good term for it.”

“Yeah, well, in any case, seems like you have some other things to sort through first.”

“Yeah, right.”

She leans back again. “If it makes you feel better, nine times out of ten, when I’ve heard someone realize after years they’re in love with their best-friend, the friend’s felt the same way all along.”

“Watch plenty of rom-coms, huh?”

“Just on the weekends,” she grins back.

Michael takes a sip and lets the whiskey linger on his tongue before swallowing. Feel the same way. He’s not actually sure if that’s more terrifying. He can’t think about that. Not yet. Not today.

“Christ. What a fucking day.”

“Well good news,” she returns with a sly smile, “plenty more where that came from.”


	2. Chapter 2

Michael blinks. Another perfect fucking day. Go figure.

He groans, rolling over to one side in the bed. His body feels a bit like a steak tenderized a few too many slams with a cleaver. God, he used to be able to fight all day and drink all night and not feel it a bit, now his back gets pissy over the slightest offense and his ribs seem determined to get him back for it.

The house feels about the same as it does any other morning, brilliant Los Santos sunlight sliding through the curtains to spill across the floor. The dull sounds of the day-lit city seep in through the cracked windows: hollow traffic, breeze against palms, a few birds twittering away in the backyard. Funny. He really had thought that a day packed with violence, redemption, and some gut twisting revelations would make the place feel… different. But it doesn’t. Well, why would it? Stupid thought anyways. 

Michael manages to sit up, and hell, his head isn’t doing too hot either. Christ, how many did he end up having last night?

His phone suddenly rumbles to life on the bedside table. He glances over. 

_Incoming Call: Amanda_

His stomach sinks. But hell, this isn’t getting any better if he ignores it.

He plucks the phone off the table. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Amanda’s voice answers. She doesn’t sound too pissed, a little irritated maybe. Tired definitely. “So where did you want to meet up?”

Michael frowns, pinching the bridge of his nose. That headache isn’t getting any better. “Meet up?”

“Ah, let me guess, you don’t _remember_ calling me at 1 AM?”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, shit. Look, never mind, it doesn’t matter—“

“No, I—” Michael takes a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry, what did I say?”

Amanda sighs. “You just said we needed to talk. Something important. Didn’t get most of it. You were pretty drunk Michael, that much was obvious, so honestly I’m not surprised if you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. It wouldn’t be the first time I got drunken guilt calls from you that didn’t amount to jack-shit.”

“Nah, look, I— yes, okay, we do need to talk.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Where do you want to meet up?”

She pauses on the other end of the line as if considering something. Likely wether or not to hang up on him.

“Bean Machine, on the end of the boulevard by the water.”

“Done.”

“When?”

Michael’s head gives a throb. “Uh… what time is it?”

Amanda sighs. “Ten.”

“Could we make it twelve?”

“Fine.”

Michael sighs as the line clicks off. He puts his phone back down on the bedside table, takes two deep breathes and stands. His head gives him a throb like a mule-kick as a reward. “Fucking perfect.”

 

By the time noon rolls around the hang-over’s swept back out to sea, leaving behind just the same off-kilter feeling that been hanging around since all this weirdness began yesterday. It feels like the world’s either a little out of focus or suddenly fully in focus and he can’t quite tell which. God it’s weird, really fucking weird. It’s like he could do anything and is scared shitless all at once. 

Clarity. Is that what it’s called? Well, maybe it’s never too late for the fucking impossible.

Amanda’s car is parked right out front. She hasn’t gone in yet, standing on the curb by the car idly checking her phone. Michael watches her for a moment. That isn’t too creepy, right? She does look good - great really. He should be so lucky to have a wife like that. But that’s the point isn’t it? It’s always been about him, what he gets, what he’s lucky enough to have. Maybe in the end she’s just unlucky enough to have ended up with him.

“Hey,” he calls.

She looks up, pocketing her phone. “Oh, hi. Huh. You’re not late.”

“Shocked?”

“Maybe,” she admits, sliding her phone into her bag. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

“I’ve—“ he starts awkwardly, “I’ve just been doing some thinking. Realized a few things.”

“Is that right?” she answers, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “What things?”

“A lot of fucking things honestly, Mand. Kinda feels like one of those cartoons dropped a damn anvil on my head.”

“And you’re sure that’s not just the hangover?”

He laughs, and her lips actually twitch towards a smile. “Alright Michael, well what? What things? Want to sit down?”

He hesitates, looking back at her. “Let’s do something else.”

“Something else?”

“Yeah. You — you want to go to the beach? Take a walk?”

Amanda blinks. “… A walk. On the beach?”

“Yeah,” Michael shrugs, the embarrassed regret already starting to steal up on him but he shoves it away. It’s never done him any fucking good anyways. “Remember? That’s all we used to talk about. We used to sit up, when the kids had gone to bed, and the January cold was creeping into that shit-hole apartment and we used to talk about beaches and sunshine and how we’d never get sick of it. Not ever. Remember that?”

She stares back at him, expression lost, but something softer finding it’s way out from underneath. “Yeah, I remember.” She laughs slightly. “I used to save bikinis in magazines. Fold over the pages. Sunglasses too, and those nice strappy shoes that never made any sense up north.”

“Did we get sick of it after all?” Michael asks, nodding his head up at the sky. “All this?”

“Well,” she shrugs. “You really only can have so many strappy shoes.”

“Guess so.”

Amanda smiles. “And I do miss snow sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Michael smiles back. “Yeah me too.”

She adjusts her purse on her shoulder, peering back at him, evaluating. She’s about his height in those heels. “The beach?”

“Yeah. What’d yah say?”

There’s a brightness under her eyes, something he hasn’t seen for a while. 

“Yes, alright,” she answers.

“Great,” Michael grins. “Oh hey, you uh, want to pop back home first, change those shoes.”

“I’ve got flats in the car. Hop in.”

“You’re gonna drive?”

“Sure,” she shrugs, moving around to the driver’s side door. “Seems like we’re doing all sorts of new things today.”

“Yeah,” Michael pulls open the door, stomach twisting just enough to notice, “yeah I guess so.”

 

The beach isn’t too busy, but it never is, not on a weekday morning. Not even that much on the weekends. That was one of the things that surprised him most when they got out here. Gorgeous beach, endless sunshine, perfect water, and no one seemed to even care, they all seemed to prefer sitting in their air-conditioned boxes complaining about the heat until they finally gave in and did two laps in their pristinely controlled swimming pools. They’d rather have that control than the feeling the sand between their toes. And hell, was he even that different now? When was the last time he sat on the beach with the sun on his face just for the hell of it? 

“Well?” Amanda asks.

He glances over. Her sunglasses are catching the light off the water as she walks next to him, brown hair looking a redder on the edges. She looks calmer out here. More peaceful. Maybe he does too.

“Well, what?”

She sighs. “Come on, Michael. What is all this? What’s going on?”

He swallows. God, how the fuck is he going to pull this off? Maybe that’s the problem. He’s so use to thinking about things in terms of some lie he has to play or a situation he has to twist his way, he’s not fucking use to no strings, no lies, just… himself. Maybe that’s because he doesn’t even know what that means anymore. Christ, he’s thinking too much. That’s what that girl would say, isn’t it? That girl from the bar. But hell it’s easier to talk to someone who can’t actually imagine the people he’s spilling his guts out over. 

“Mand,” he starts. Then stops. Then starts again. “Are you… happy?”

She hesitates. “Am I happy?”

“Yeah,” he answers.

She glances up. “Are you?”

Michael laughs. “That’s not what I asked.

“It’s what I’m asking.”

He looks out over the water, feeling the salty air pushing up and through his hair, along the line of his neck, where he’s rolled up his sleeves. There’s someone selling popcorn a little ways down the beach and the smell carries like a carnival over the sand. 

“I think,” he starts, “I think I’ve gotten real good at convincing myself I know what happy looks like.”

Amanda makes a soft sound next to him, as though that sounds right to her too.

“I think I’ve been painting a picture, you know, this picture like something out of some 90’s wallet, and telling myself the picture is happiness, that’s what it means: smiling faces and the white picket fence - or the iron reinforced gated neighborhood, whatever. But I’ve been thinking that’s it, you know, that’s the goal, just painting that picture.”

“And now what?”

“Now,” he gazes down the beach, sharply colored umbrellas speckling the white expanse as far as the eye can see. “Now I think that happiness isn’t something that fits in a picture. It’s something else entirely, totally. And honestly, honestly Mand, I’m fucking scared.”

“Scared of what?” He can feel her watching him, voice soft and expression a gentle sort of concern.

“I’m scared,” he wets his lips. “I’m scared that I don’t even know what happiness fucking feels like any more. Like I wouldn’t know it if it smacked me right between the eyes.”

She looks back to the ocean, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

“Something happened,” he starts again. “Yesterday.”

She glances back to him. “Something?”

“I just… it made me think, made me realize, that I don’t want to not know. That I want to actually try, to see, even if it’s fucking terrifying and explodes right in my face. I want to see if I can be happy. If you can be happy. Because you deserve that Mand, christ more than most, you fucking deserve that.”

She comes to a stop, looking out at the ocean. It’s hard to tell just what she’s thinking under those sunglasses, and even then, she always had one of the best poker faces he’s ever seen. She reaches down, unstrapping her shoes. She steps out of them and walks the few feet down to the water. A wave rolls in, stealing up around her bare feet and she wiggles her toes against it, watching them sink into the sand.

“You know,” she starts. “I used to have a very particular sort of sense of what it meant to love someone. I never thought it was anything special or magic. I was never that naive. Growing up in my house will do that. It was about security. That’s what love was for me. Maybe that’s what it still is. It meant safety and comfort and things that don’t seem important to anyone who’s lucky enough to have always had them. It can to mean accepting that hollow feeling inside when you wake up every morning and look at your life and wonder if it always felt this strange to you, if it always seemed like something you could never quite touch properly. I think a lot of people get very good at accepting that. I think a lot of people are very lucky to get so good at accepting that.”

Michael sees the girl’s face in the bar, that vivid concern as she’d listened to him.

“I think they’re afraid of something else, those people,” Michael starts.

She gazes out at the sea. “Of what?”

“I don’t know,” he kicks a shoe against the sand, swallowing thickly. “Maybe they’re afraid of accepting themselves.”

“Because maybe then they’d have to face the deeper truth.”

“The deeper truth that…”

“That maybe they are too afraid to risk being truly happy.”

Michael watches her, the line of her shoulders against the curves of the ocean. “Why would you be afraid to be happy, Mand?”

“Maybe happiness is like love. Maybe it’s just an idea in storybooks they tell little girls to keep them well behaved.”

“Do you think that’s true?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know.” She turns, looking over her shoulder back at him. “What do you think?”

“I think…” He can still see Trevor’s face. The light of the sunset catching against his eyes. That peace there. Honest-to-goodness fucking peace. Just for a moment. “I think I don’t want to let being afraid of finding some happiness stop me from finding it. I think I want to try, Mand. Actually, honestly, _try_. Even if it leaves me more miserable or bleeding out on the side of some road. I want to try. Before I’m actually dead this time. I want to be happy.” It feels like a weird thing to say. Maybe he’s never really meant it before. “I want you to be happy.”

Michael laughs suddenly, hearing that come out of his own mouth. She turns to look at him again.

He runs a hand through his hair, smile pained but honest. “Mand. Seriously. I don’t make you happy. At all. Do I?”

Concern flashes across her expression for a moment. Then she’s smiling too. She actually looks like she might start laughing. “You don’t. Oh my god, you _so_ don’t. You make me fucking miserable.”

“See!” Michael laughs back. “See I knew that. I knew that! I’ve known that for years and I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. Why the hell didn’t you say something?”

“I did!” she calls back. “And so did you - I guess we just thought that’s how this works. But it isn’t, is it?”

“I really don’t think it has to be.”

“God. Why did we think it had to?”

“I think we thought this would feel bad.”

“What would?”

“This,” Michael can’t help smiling, “this conversation.”

Amanda stares back at him. “Breaking up.”

“Yeah,” Michael smiles gently. “I think we thought it would be screaming. Throwing things. Crying. Bad things.”

“Shows what we know. huh?” Amanda tilts her head, considering. “It’s so funny. Isn’t it? All those years, and then it’s just… it is what it is.”

“Is what it isn’t,” Michael notes.

“Right.” She starts walking again, steps leaving wet imprints behind her that vanish in the tide. Michael follows. Her hand slips into his. He holds it back. “So what then?

“I’d like to see you happy,” Michael answers. “I’d really like to see that. I miss that.”

She looks back at him. “Me too. And honestly happy, Michael, not trying to pretend you’re something you’re not through the eyes of some pretty girl too young to know what kind of hell she’s stepping into.”

“Hey, look where that got me,” he smiles, giving her hand a squeeze.

“Yeah, well, you tend to repeat your mistakes like a dog that no one cares enough to yell at.”

“Not this time.”

“You know what’s really insane? I actually believe you.” She stops. “What is this, Michael? What happened to you?”

“I uh, realized something.”

“Yeah you said. What?”

He faces her. Shit. Well. No turning back now is there.

“I think I’m in love with Trevor.”

Amanda stares back at him.

“Have been…” he continues lamely. “Am… Was. Then. Now. Unfortunately. Insanely…”

She doesn’t speak, just continues staring back at him, mouth a little open.

“So… you want to, uh, let me know what you think about that?” 

“Trevor,” she repeats.

“Yeah.”

“Trevor _Phillips_.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re _in love_ with _Trevor_ Phillips.”

Michael holds her look. “…Yeah.”

“Oh my god… “ She tilts her head, gazing over Michael’s shoulder. “That makes so much fucking sense.”

“Wait, wait - what?!” Michael can’t help exclaiming.

“That makes _so_ much sense, Michael, oh my god, how did you not realize this? How did _we_ not realize this! I think he’s the only person in the world who cares more about you than you do! Of course you’re fucking in love with him.”

“Alright, alright—“ Michael starts.

“Seriously though, seriously,” she starts again, then quiets, staring off to the ocean and then back to him. “Oh my god…”

“Yeah,” Michael sighs. “Yeah I know.”

“Does he know?”

“No,” Michael says quickly, “fuck no, I haven’t gotten there yet.”

“You…” she starts with disbelief. “You told _me_ about this first?”

Michael shrugs. “Well… yeah. Seemed like the right thing to do.”

She stares. “The right thing to do. Christ, Michael. Are you sure you just realized you’re in love with someone, you didn’t get hit by a bus or abducted by aliens or anything?”

“Hell maybe I have been adducted by aliens,” he grumbles, “sure would make a lot of fucking sense.”

Amanda sighs, “So?”

“So what?”

“So what does that make us now?”

Michael shrugs. “How about… friends, maybe?”

Amanda nods slowly. “Maybe. Yeah, friends. Seems okay. Better than miserable, huh?”

“Yeah. Much better than miserable.” Michael takes a deep breath and let’s it out slowly, rocking back on his heels. “So, uh, you want the house?”

Amanda laughs. “No. No, you know, actually, I think I want my own house. I’ve never had my own house. Did you know that?”

“Nah, I didn’t know that.”

“I think,” she starts, a calm smile spreading across her face. “I think I want a house on the beach. With a view. So I can never forget how much I missed it. A house on the beach. Nice, but not too big.”

Michael smiles, a sense of contentment filling him at the look on her face. “Good. Done.”

“And,” she continues, almost as if she doesn’t hear him. “I think I want to do something. A business. For myself. I’m tired of watching you mess them up.”

Michael snorts. “Oh yeah, like what?”

“A gym?” she starts. “Everyone around here seems to need a gym. I think I could run a _great_ gym - classy, friendly. Maybe just for women. With dancing classes. And poles even. That seems to be _very_ popular these days with all the women who’d rather pay to pretend to be strippers while still judging the girls just making a buck down at the clubs.”

“Yeah no shit,” Michael says. “So: House on the beach. Gym. No problem. Done.”

“And I think,” she continues that same small smile of her face, eyes distant over the ocean, “I think that I want to pay you back.”

“Pay me back?”

“For the gym. Once it’s going. Call it a business loan, to get started. Not the house though. You can buy me a house. I earned that much,” she grins.

“Yeah,” Michael agrees. “All considered, a nice house on the beach is a pretty fair trade for getting a gun held to your head half a dozen times.”

She turns back to the beach. He follows her. Turned into a pretty nice walk in the end, he’s happy to finish it.

“Maybe the kids will actually have to get their own places if I get mine,” Amanda calls over her shoulder.

Michael snorts. “Yeah. That’s fucking likely.”

 

She drops him back at the Bean Machine, driving off with a wave. He waves back, watching her go and sliding his hands into his pockets. 

Well, that didn’t go so bad. Maybe there was something to this honestly owning your own happiness thing after all. Maybe the rest of this would go that well. Yeah, he sneers, because he’s just that fucking lucky.

His phone suddenly buzzes sharply in his pocket. He reaches down, pulling it out.

Trevor’s number flashes back at him. “Shit.”

He moves to put it back in his pocket, ignore it, one thing at a time. But god, how is that helping. 

Fuck it.

He picks up. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“MIKEY!” Trevor’s voice roars on the other end. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Oh, you know, the usual.”

“Great, perfect, fuck that. We’re coming to get you.”

“We?”

“Yeah, _we_ , me and Franky, here.” And now that he mentions it Michael can hear what could easily be Franklin’s thoroughly unimpressed voice complaining about something in the background, likely Trevor’s driving.

“What are you two doin’?”

“CELEBRATING, what else? Did your fucking pool-side hemorrhoidic lifestyle already sap the thrills of the score out of you?”

“Hey, I was just fucking asking—“

“Yeahyeahyeah - where are you, huh?”

“You don’t know? Haven’t snuck in while I was sleeping and sutured a fucking tracker to the inside of my neck?”

“Why? Planning on vanishing in a cloud of uppity aftershave and heavy sarcasm again?”

And there it is, the guilt-trip, as reliable as the damn Los Santos sunshine.

“Where are you?” Trevor repeats sharply.

“By my place. That coffee joint on the corner.”

“Alright. We’re coming.”

“Yo dog, maybe he doesn’t want to—“ Michael hears in the background.

“WE’RE FUCKING COMING!” The phone clicks off.

Perfect. Just perfect.


	3. Chapter 3

A ridiculous indigo sports-car he’s never seen before drives halfway up onto the curb before screeching to a stop. Michael watches with a sigh, leaning back and finishing the last few sips of his coffee. The horn honks. He gives half a wave, letting his drink linger. Well. This is going to be interesting. What happens when you realized you’ve been in love with someone for twenty-five years and then you see them again for the first time? He probably should have watched more of those cheesy flicks with Tracey when she was eleven. 

The car honks again, louder, half the coffeeshop is watching it. He wouldn’t be surprised if a few shocked patrons were already prepped to dial 9-1-1.

“For fuck’s sake, I’M COMING,” he yells heading their way, chucking the paper cup in the bin as he passes. Ah, well. He’s gonna have to find out how this goes sooner or later.

Franklin’s in the passenger seat, so he pops open the back door, sliding in. “Hey.”

“Took you fucking long enough,” Trevor calls from the front seat without turning. Michael stares hard at the bald-spot on the back of his head. Doesn’t feel too different. Doesn’t feel especially imbued with romantic transcendent fucking value.

“Hey man,” Franklin answers, reaching a closed fist behind the seat. Michael bumps it back, leaning back again hurriedly as Trevor jams the stick and launches the car back off the curb. 

“Hey, how about we try driving ten feet without making me feel like I’m about to fucking hurl back here, huh, how’s that sound?” Michael grimaces.

“You could do with a few good hurls porky,” Trevor calls back from the front.

“Yeah and fuck you too,” Michael snaps instinctively.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Franklin breaks in. His voice is a little sloppy on the edges. They must have been drinking. “Fuck me, you two got to fight about _anything_ , huh? Here we are. Nice sunny damn day. Big fat pile of cash sittin’ in the bank, the first thing you fools do is bitch bitch bitch.”

“Hey, he started it,” Trevor says.

“Yeah. I started it. Everyone else always fucking starts it. You just finish it, right?”

“If you just gonna whine your asses off this whole damn time you can let me out right here, thanks very much,” Franklin continues.

“Yeah Michael, you heard him, stop _whining_ back there - we will pull this car over.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Michael rolls his eyes.

“So!” Trevor rips the car around a corner so fast the closest three pedestrians hurl themselves into the bushes to avoid certain death. “What’re we doin’?”

“Not dying in a flaming wreck?” Michael tries.

“Hardy-har,” Trevor returns. “Seriously, seriously - we always end up doing the same boring, _typical_ shit. Let’s do something _real_ special. Proper fucking celebrating, huh?”

“What do you mean ‘always’?” Michael scoffs. “Cause we do this _so_ often.”

“Often enough,” Franklin shrugs. “Let’s drop some cash, man, we can, I want to know how it feels to lay down some serious paper.”

“What? Want to buy a car? Boat? Fucking plane?” Trevor asks.

“Nah, nah man I mean something _stupid_ like rich white folks shit you know, something that shouldn’t cost that much but fuck it, because we’ve got the damn means, you know.”

“Alright well one suggestion: spending money like stupid white-people. What’ve you got Mikey?”

Michael gazes out the window. God, this is so fucking stupid, he’s infuriating. Still. Now, always, fucking forever. But even sitting here, in the back of the car ripping up backroads, he feels calmer, happier. It’s like there’s something about his voice, when it isn’t grating that psychotic edge, something that feels like being home.

Christ. Maybe he was abducted by aliens.

“Something pretty,” Michael says finally, “fuck, I don’t know: scenery, a view, something like that. It’s a nice day.”

“Hmm, alright. Fruity. But noted.”

“How about you dog, what you want?”

“Booze,” Trevor says instantly. “I’d like a fucking challenging amount of booze.”

“Aight, aight - hey! How about that wine place?”

“The vineyard?” Trevor asks.

“Yeah shit, you know, that one up in those hills. That’s got everything. We can spend the stupid money on booze and look at the view gettin’ drunk as hell.”

“And we have a winner!” Trevor grins. “Nice fucking thinking there kid, keep it up you’ll be a good lil planner just like papa number two back there.”

“Hey, hey,” Michael butts in, “if anything I’m papa number one. I found him first.”

“Put it to a vote!” Trevor calls back. “What’d yah say Franky?”

“Yeah, cause I’m really takin’ fucking sides on that one.”

The car curls up the hills easily enough despite the wretched sound the tires are making. Michael leans back, watching pine trees and wildflowers flit past the window. 

“What’ve you guys been up to?”

“Oh, you know, just all that normal _single_ guy stuff,” Trevor starts to narrate from the front. “Franky came over, took in some girls, took in some drinks.”

“Mmm, sounds nice,” Michael rolls sarcastically.

“Well it fucking was. Nice to have company,” Trevor returns.

The vineyard appears at the top of the hill, peachy brick walls lining the neat rows of vines.

“What’d you get up to man? How’d you celebrate?” Franklin asks.

Michael gazes out the window, playing a few possible answers around in his head, selecting a couple that seem a little more appropriate than _“realized I was in love with that asshole and got drunk off my ass trying to understand how the fuck that happened”._

“Well,” he starts. “Got a little drunk. Got a little hungover. Got a little divorced.”

The brakes slam on. 

Franklin swears, just managing to grab hold of the door as the car rips into a full circle in the middle of the road. Michael isn’t so lucky. He slams hard against the passenger side door head first.

“Fuck me, T! Watch it!”

“Wear your fucking seatbelt!” Trevor snarls, suddenly spinning around in his seat to face him. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“We’re in the middle of the fucking road, Trevor!” Michael roars back.

“You’re getting _divorced_?”

“Yeah,” Michael blinks at Trevor’s amber eyes staring back wide and lost, almost frantic even. 

He looks shocked, actually fucking shocked. It’s interesting. A bit more enjoyable than it probably should be. Michael can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen him honestly shocked. 

“Yeah,” Michael repeats. “I am. We are.”

“Seriously?” Franklin asks, turning around.

“Yes seriously, fucking christ should I show you some damn paperwork?”

“ _Is_ there paperwork?” Trevor asks. “Is it _official_?”

“Not yet,” Michael answers, “hell I don’t know, soon though. Shit. Should probably find a lawyer that doesn’t hate me…”

“When’d this happen?” Franklin presses.

“Uh, this morning. More like an hour ago, actually.”

Trevor turns back to the front, knuckles tight on the steering wheel. Michael frowns at the back of his head.

“What happened?” Franklin asks, arm draped over the back of his seat where he’s turned to face him. 

Michael shrugs. “I wasn’t happy. She wasn’t happy. So… seems to make sense.”

“Shit man, so what? You’re not gonna just ‘stick it out’? Pretend everything’s fine and slowly hate each other more and more til one dies? I though that’s what you people do.”

“‘You people’? What people?”

“You know, your what-ever the fuck, demographic, or whatever.”

Michael snorts. “Yeah maybe. But I’m pretty tired of trying to do whatever my ‘demographic’ demands alright. That’s a cliche I don’t think I’ll be going after. And she deserves better. Much fucking better.”

The car’s moving again, Trevor’s driving into the vineyard, attention still dead-set straight ahead.

“Yeah,” Franklin agrees quietly. “Yeah man, I guess that’s true. And you, uh, told her that?”

“Nah, just thought I’d mail the divorce papers over. Of course I fucking told her that.”

“Fine man, fine, jeez. And how’d she take that?”

Michael watches the back of Trevor’s head critically. He parks the car. In an actual fucking parking space, right by the front.

“She took it really well actually,” he answers.

“Seriously?” Franklin asks.

“Yeah.” He stares ahead out the windshield. “Makes me wonder though.”

“Wonder what?”

“How much time we wasted, you know, pretending we were trying to save something that we never really had at all.”

Trevor snaps his door open, and slams it shut behind him again as he steps quickly across the cobblestones towards the front door. They both watch him go. 

“The fuck’s his problem?” Franklin starts, opening his door as well. Michael follows him out. “Doesn’t he fuckin’ hate your wife?”

“Yeah,” Michael watches Trevor yank the front doors open, heading right in without looking back. “At least that’s what he carved in the back of my car twelve or so years ago.”

“Crazy,” Franklin shakes his head.

By the time they get inside Trevor’s already heading towards the back patio, away from a frightened looking cashier with a bottle of wine in each hand. Michael frowns, watching him as he plops down on one of the tables outside and pulls one of the corks most of the way out with his teeth. He only half hears Franklin as he order another two of the most expensive bottles they’ve got and pushes one into Michael’s hands.

They head out the back doors, sitting down on either side of where Trevor’s perched on the end of the table. He doesn’t look at them as they sit down, doesn’t say a word, just glares broodingly out across the vineyard as if he’s trying to set every damn vine on fire by sheer force of hatred.

“The fuck crawled up your ass?” Franklin asks, arching a brow.

“Fuck off,” Trevor growls, draining about a third of his bottle. 

Franklin shakes his head, turning back to Michael who’s setting out their glasses. “So’d you tell your kids yet?” he asks.

“Nah, not yet, fun as that’s going to be—“

“I’m going for a walk,” Trevor exclaims suddenly, sliding off the table. “Alone.”

“A walk? The fuck you talkin’ about?” Franklin yells after him.

“JUST A WALK. Alright. God fucking _christ_.” He’s lifting the bottle to his lips again, climbing right over the short stone wall into the hills as half the terrace stares after him.

“Well what dog, should we fucking wait?” Franklin yells back.

“Don’t bother.” Trevor vanishes into the trees.

“What the hell’s his problem?” Franklin asks, turning back to his glass.

Michael frowns down at the cup, pouring the wine almost to the brim. “I don’t know. Fuck I never know.”

“Know better than me. Hell, better than anyone most likely.”

“Yeah, well, goes to show, doesn’t it?”

“Goes to show what?”

“The damn enigma of nature that is Trevor-fucking-Phillips.” Michael sets the wine bottle down, staring hard at the table. “Fuck, I should go get him.”

“Nah man, nah,” Franklin laughs, grabbing his glass. “He wants to fuck off and wander through the fucking wilderness that’s his biz, _I_ want to drink this damn wine and look at this fine-ass view. And I don’t want to sit here alone neither.”

“He’s pissed though, I could try—“

“He’s _always_ fuckin’ pissed. Like you said, who knows why.”

Michael gives in, lifting his glass and taking a sip. He never really gave a shit about wine despite a few classes Amanda had them take when they first got here, but it does taste pretty damn good nonetheless. The sun’s lower in the sky than when they started driving, catching across the hills and deepening the colors everywhere into oranges and golds.

“Hell, I thought he’d be happy,” Michael says finally. “Shows how much I fucking know.”

“Maybe he is happy, dog, maybe he just doesn’t know how to handle that.”

“Handle what?”

“It’s like you said right,” Franklin shrugs, taking another long sip and leaning back, looking like something out of fucking QG magazine. “Y’all aren’t exactly used to being happy.”

“Yeah, me maybe, but Trevor’s a different story.”

“How different?”

“Fuck, he’s always doing whatever the hell he wants without a flicker of a second damn thought. He’s like the walking poster-boy for that stupid shit Tracey’s always yammering into her phone, YALA or whatever.”

Franklin starts to grin. “YALA?”

“Yeah, or whatever the fuck it is. You know what I’m talking about.”

“… YOLO?”

“Yeah right sure, that.”

“You even know what the means?” Franklin’s smiling at him again like he’s something that belongs on late-night TV. 

“Yes, alright, I know what it fucking means.”

“If you don’t get the damn letters right how you know what’s meant?”

“I might not know the damn letters but I know the fucking vibe alright. And it’s _his_ vibe. Do whatever you want. Fuck the consequences. Go hard. Right?”

“Yeah I guess,” Franklin shrugs.

“I mean what the hell’s he doing all that shit for if it’s not to have fun, huh? To make himself fucking happy?”

Franklin takes another sip. He looks like he’s already tipsy enough to enjoy holding the glass like a pretentious jackass. 

“I don’t know, man. Maybe he just doesn’t know what the hell else to do. Maybe it’s just like your shit, just different, you know?”

“Yeah, cause that makes a shit ton of sense.”

“Nah man, hear me out, hear me out. What’d you do? You’ve got this Michael De Santa postcard image, and that’s what you try to make your life into, right? That’s the problem? You’re all about fitting into this picture, even, no fuck that, _especially_ if it comes with some self-pity as some big heaping side-dish, cause that’s an easier set of emotions to pull on through than looking yourself right in the face and admitting it’s not working. Yeah?”

“Jesus,” Michael swears, leaning into his wine. “When the fuck did you millennials all become pop-psychologists, huh?”

“TV man, too much TV.”

“Right,” Michael grumbles.

“Anyway, it’s the same deal with him, right? The Trevor Phillips post-card picture looks a fuck of a lot different than yours, but it’s still a cliche man, just a different one, cause that makes it easier. Only he’s got a side-dish of some serious self-destruction instead of your bitchy self-pity. Not sure what I prefer honestly, both pretty shitty to be around for too long.”

“Least mine doesn’t come with a body count.”

“Most days,” Franklin mutters.

“Hey!”

“What? It’s true. Rest of the time it’s just a big ear-full of whine, whine, whine. Like I said. Not sure what’s better.”

“Alright, alright,” Michael pushes back. 

“Look man, what it comes down to is no one’s that loud without wanting someone to hear them, a’ight?”

Michael frowns. “What the hell’s that mean?”

Franklin sighs, leaning forward, resting both his forearms on the table. “Look, so, when we were little, Lamar didn’t have no one and we used to be at the same family center or whatever the hell when we were _real_ little cause there wasn’t no one else, yeah? So, Lamar was always getting up to shit man, he would wait for the woman that worked there to leave the room then he’d pull paints off the tables or fall down and start crying, just dramatic shit. And every-time this girl was workin’ she’d come runnin’ in and scoop him up and either hold him until he stopped crying or scold his ass for causing trouble. But it was always attention, yah feel me, and he kept doin’ it. Throwin’ shit down just to see if anyone cared enough to come and pick it up.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “Weren’t you, like… five?”

“Yeah cause he’s the fuckin’ picture of maturity, look, I’m just callin’ it how I see it.”

“So let me get this ‘theory’ of yours right,” Michael starts. “Trevor, Trevor _Phillips_ is blowing up trains and shooting up gangs and rampaging all over this fucking city, because he wants someone to give him _a hug_?”

“Maybe. Hey man, I didn’t say it wasn’t sad as hell. I’m just sayin’.”

“Yeah, too bad he fucked off, I’m sure he’d _love_ to hear your theory there. That would go over real well. Maybe we could sneak attack and double-team bear-hug him until all the evil leaks out.”

“You know, one time,” Franklin continues, apparently not listening him, “my mom dropped me off at the center, back when she was still around, and she gave me this juice box. Grape. Good stuff.”

“Yeah no shit,” Michael smiles into his wine.

“Anyway, she give me this juice box and I fucking drop the thing, got it all over my shirt, and she of course flips, nothing like scary or anything just frettin’ and shit and finds me a new shirt and makes me promise not to mess it up or nothing, cause that’s important and I’ve only got so many. So next morning, Lamar shows up at the center and spills juice on his shirt. Makes a big show of it. No one says nothing. He didn’t have no one to say nothing, and I’m too damn little and stupid to know what he was after. So he spends the whole day in this ruined shirt, pissy as hell, and the next day I found the thing all shoved in the corner of the bathroom.”

Michael stares at him. “That’s a real nice story, Frank. Thanks for that.”

“Just sayin’ man. Sometimes I wonder if anyone ever gave a fuck if damn Trevor ruined his shirts.”

“Christ,” Michael leans back, rubbing the balls on his hands against his eyes. “Enough of that shit, alright, you’re freaking me out.”

“Yeah,” Franklin snorts, “no fuckin’ problem. You’re the one that started it.”

“Yeah I know, I know.” Michael eases back into his seat. The sun feels good up here, not nearly as punishing with the mountain air around. It doesn’t have that same polluted smell of burnt batteries hanging around, just pine and wine and all that damn nature. 

“Maybe I just want him to be happy about something I did. For once. Just for fucking once.”

“You could go beat the shit out of that dude with the pink fedora who keeps spittin’ the wine in that nasty bucket. That would probably make him pretty damn happy.”

“I mean where does he get off, huh?” Michael hears himself snap. “He spends twenty years, _twenty years_ , talking about how much he fucking _hates_ Amanda, which she doesn’t fucking deserve by the way - telling me I’m lying to myself and that I should start being honest about my damn life, and here I go and fucking do just that for once and he wanders off into the hills like some monk who left the fucking stove on.”

“I don’t think monks have stoves, dog.”

“You know what the hell I mean.”

“Not really, but whatever man.”

Michael leans even further back. “God what it’s been a hell of a twenty-four hours, you know that?”

“Yeah I know that. Hell, yesterday feels like ten fucking years ago already.”

“Yeah,” Michael sighs, “yeah, it really does.”

“Hey, here man,” Franklin says, scooping up his glass. “Here’s to it, huh?”

“To what?” Michael asks.

Franklin smiles. “To what really fucking matters man. We’re alive. We’re here. To fight and bitch and fuck off into the hills. Ain’t that worth a drink?”

“Yeah,” Michael smiles back. “Sure is.”

 

It’s late by the time he gets home. He’s not exactly sure _how_ late, but late’s probably a safe guess. He can see Franklin’s headlights pulling away through the ripples of the stained glass as he lets the doors click shut behind him. He’s just the right kind of drunk. That nice wafting sort of drunk where things don’t seem too complicated, just right in fact. Wine drunk. Goofy. And a little more floaty than usual. He stumbles a little heading into the foyer. “Hey-ooo.”

His voice sounds strange in the empty house. Always has. Maybe he should have a house on the beach too. But he never really liked sand. Got fucking everywhere. A seagulls. He fucking hates seagulls.

There’s a stack of papers on the end table by that statue of the horse. They weren’t there when he left.

He saunters over to them, frowning down, trying to focus.

Neat legal print reads across the front. There’s a few friendly yellow “sign-here” labels sticking out of the sides. He thumbs over the papers idly for a moment. Divorce papers.

She must have gotten this all taken care of today. She always was much better at that sort of stuff than he was. 

He should probably have someone read it. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? “Lawyer up” or whatever the hell the cliche is. He frowns down at the papers. He takes out a pen. He doesn’t even bother reading a single thing, just signs his name where the helpful neon stickies ask him to. 

Trust. Better late than fucking never, huh?

He stumbles the rest of the way up the stairs, just managing to strip before falling face first into bed. The taste of damn good wine is still rolling around his tongue. He pulls his face off the pillows just enough to see his phone on the bedside table. He pulls it close, opening the texts and tapping clumsily. It takes a few tries to get it right.

_Night Mand._

There’s no reply for a minute. Maybe two. Then, finally.

_Goodnight Michael._

He smiles clumsily. Thumb easing around the screen. He pulls up Franklin’s info, looking at the picture for a moment with a smile before scrolling again. He stares at Trevor’s picture for a while longer, and when his eyes start to get heavy he puts the phone down just under his hand, just enough to still see. The screen glows gently back at him. He’s asleep well before it switches itself off.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so whenever I write a story I always end up adopting a sort of "opening titles" song for the fic and it's pretty rare that I find one as perfect for this story as this one, so here's a [THEME SONG](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pHNSGv5oFzQ) for this story.
> 
> (And I'll add a whole mix probably for next week)

He doesn’t notice the smell until he’s brushing his teeth. 

Michael slows the toothbrush, narrowing his eyes back at himself in the mirror. His mouth’s still foaming, one hand braced on the counter in his grey shirt and striped boxers. The smell’s weird. Wrong. Almost like something’s… burning?

“Shit,” he mutters around the toothbrush, spitting hard into the sink. “Shit, shit, shit.” 

That’s exactly what he needs. He’s got the house to himself again and burns it down within a week, like some kid who shouldn’t be trusted with matches. But what the hell would even _be_ burning. Maybe he left something on the stove? No that can’t be it. He hasn’t used it. The microwave? Is that even possible?

He hurries down the stairs, doing his best not to slip right down them on his ass. He turns the bottom step as quickly as he can, and shit something really is burning, there’s even a thin mist of smoke down here.

Someone’s muttering frantically from the kitchen. “Shitshitshit—!“ 

Of course. Because who else would be in his kitchen with smoke billowing out of it first thing in the morning.

“Trevor?” Michael yells, turning the last corner into the kitchen. 

“It’s fine Mikey, just fine, no problems here, no sir.” Trevor’s kicking open the sliding glass door, and rushing out with what looks like a frying pan billowing smoke clutched in his hands. There’s a splash and a hiss of steam and then he’s walking back in, slapping his hands together as if to clean them off. “There, see. All better.”

“What the hell are you doing?!”

“What the fuck’s it look like?” Trevor answers, lamely wafting the smoke out the open door. It’s almost working, although Michael suspects that’s the air-conditioning trying to normalize more than any frantic slapping at the air with a dishtowel.

“How did you get in?” Michael asks, hurrying across the floor to open the rest of the windows.

“That’s a bad lock. You need a new one.”

“Great.” Michael turns back towards the kitchen, giving the whole scene good hard look. It’s a mess, dishes everywhere, flour scattered across the table. “What the fuck happened in here?” He looks at Trevor. He’s got a smear of flour across his forehead. At least he hopes it’s flour. “Were you… _cooking_?”

“Yes, actually, is that so _shocking_ , huh?”

“Honestly, yeah. Considering it’s _my_ kitchen.”

“I wanted to make breakfast.”

Michael stares. “Breakfast.”

“Did I fucking stutter?”

Michael peers out at the pool. It’s stopped steaming. “What was in the pan?”

“Hit a rabbit on the way here. Thought I’d make the most of it.”

“Ah, right. That actually makes the sink a lot less horrifying.”

“Yeah, well, they’re a little hard to gut right when they’ve got half a tire tattooed across ‘em.”

Michael’s getting a vague memory of a cat Tracey got when she was little. It used to go out at night and catch bats and then leave them on Tracey’s pillow for when she woke up. He should probably be grateful this mess didn’t make it as far as his bedspread.

“Where’ve you been?” Michael asks.

“Round,” Trevor answers. He’s picking up various things from the counters, eyeing them critically as if wondering how hard he’ll have to push to get them recognized as food.

“I tried calling. Few times.” Michael says.

“Yeah. Noticed.”

“Since when do you not pick up your phone?”

“Since I get fucking busy, alright?”

“Doin’ what? Picking off suburban rabbits?”

“Doing whatever the hell I do, alright, and _since when_ do you even care?”

Michael can’t help flinching at that, but what the hell else did he expect. He sighs, moving around the counter. He snatches the spatula out of Trevor’s hands. “Give me that.”

“Fuck’re you doing?”

“Breakfast,” Michael says firmly. “So sit your ass down.”

And to his surprise he actually listens, loping around the counter to plop down on one of the stools. For someone who’s likely been up all night running all manner of things down on a road in the middle of nowhere he actually doesn’t look too bad. He’s wearing that red plaid shirt, baseball cap on the counter next to him. His jeans don’t even look entirely caked with filth.

Michael turns back, still feeling Trevor’s eyes watch him lazily as he does his best to navigate the hell-scape of the kitchen.

“Whatcha makin’,” Trevor says, tone almost playful.

“Whatever,” Michael answers. “What’d you want? Pancakes work? I can’t make much that doesn’t come at least 75% out of a box.”

“Got syrup?”

“Course.”

“ _Real_ syrup?” Trevor presses.

“You mean _Canadian_ syrup?”

“I mean _real_ syrup. From a fucking tree. Not whatever the hell they pump out of Aunt-what’s-her faces’ tits.”

Michael snorts out a laugh. “Yes, alright. From a fucking tree.”

“Good.”

He clears a space on the counter, ignoring the horror-show of the sink and turning to the fridge to find milk and a few eggs, plopping them down next to the mix.

“So,” Michael says.

“Sooo?” Trevor answers.

“So what the hell are you doing gutting rabbits in my kitchen?”

“Well excuuuse me,” Trevor says, “I thought it would be _nice_.”

“To what? Set the place on fire?”

“To do something _considerate_ alright, christ you’re a fucking pain in the ass, you know that?”

Michael smiles down at the pancake mix. “Yeah. I know that.”

Trevor’s still watching him. He can feel it even if he isn’t looking. Trevor’s stare has a particular boring quality that’s hard to not be pretty damn aware of. 

“So, where’s the fam?”

Michael grabs a skillet from under the stove. “The fuck you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about. Wife. Kiddies. Where’re they?”

Michael slides the skillet onto the stove, turning to face him. “Did you not hear me the other day?”

“Hear what?” Trevor returns, eyebrows arching innocently.

Michael glares. “I’m getting _divorced_ , T.”

“Oh right, yeah, well I mean you _said_ that but there’s no paperwork or anything _real_ so you don’t actually—“

“It’s signed.” Michael turns back to the stove, snapping it on.

Trevor’s quiet for a long moment. “What’d you mean?”

Michael can’t help laughing. “God I’m starting to think telling you all this is more of a pain in the ass than telling the fucking kids is going to be.”

He pours the first couple of pancakes, smooth round edges expanding until the heat puffs them back up again.

“Sooo, then you’re actually, _really_ …”

“Really, truly, actually: divorced. Papers signed. Mailed. Notarized. Whatever the fuck they do with them, I honestly don’t really know. Mand’s staying with the kids. We’ll handle that later. But yeah. It’s done.”

Feels weird to say that. Done. Wrong word somehow. It doesn’t feel like something to be “done with”. More like something that’s finally, weirdly, slid into a slot that let’s him see the sky a little clearer. He wonders if she’s feeling the same way right about now… 

Michael scoops the pancakes up, flipping them neatly over with a dull sizzle. There’s something twitching behind his chest, something that’s making it hard to focus on anything beside listening far too damn intently to whatever the hell Trevor manages to say next.

“Well,” Trevor clears his throat, “that’s, uh… something.”

Fucking perfect. _This_ is the moment he choses to actually act like a decent human being.

“It’s a long time coming,” Michael says. He plates the pancakes, sliding them over to Trevor before getting his own, settling down across the counter from him and pushing the syrup over. “Guess I don’t have to tell you that, though, huh?”

Trevor doesn’t look like he knows what to say to that. Kinda nice seeing him speechless actually. Michael smirks. He always has such a quick fucking comeback. It’s undeniably satisfying to be a few steps ahead. 

Trevor slices a fork into the pancakes, watching the syrup pool down and into the cakey texture. His head’s tilted in a way that brings out the familiar angle of his shoulders, that cocky, easy slope of a posture. Michael let’s himself watch him. It’s doing something funny to his stomach. Something warm and kinda comfy, feels sort like how cats look when they tuck their paws up under their chest and settle down, and hell — what the fuck’s happened to him? He’s not a fucking cat’s paws, jesus _christ_. 

“Why now?” Trevor asks.

Michael blinks. “What?”

Trevor looks up, stare firm, a little wild on the edges still but something calmer there, something honest. “Why now?”

Funny. Trevor has two voices. Michael always knew that, recognized it, but it feels more true now. He has the voice he uses almost always, that theatrically flowing up and down, singing then grating sort of voice. The one that sounds like something between a drunken shakespearian actor and a furious trucker combined in some freak experiment. Loud, confident, and brash. And then there’s the other voice. The one that just comes out of him when he isn’t paying attention. The voice that feels like it doesn’t think it needed to be anything for anyone. The voice that’s just… Trevor.

“Mikey?”

Michael’s stomach twists under him. He suddenly feels way too hot for no good reason, prickly nerves snaking up his skin with a pressing greedy panic.

Say it. Just fucking say it.

He drops his head back to his plate. “No reason.” He tries to keep his voice even. It sounds fine. Almost normal. “Just… better late than never, huh?”

Trevor’s quiet for a moment. Finally his fork falls back to his plate with a good loud slice. “These taste like shit by the way.”

“Fuck off.”

“Just tellin’ it like it is.” 

“How bout you fish your rabbit out of the damn pool. Chew on that.”

Trevor grins, taking another massive bite. 

Michael watches him. He feels the smile sneak onto his own face.

“Hey, T?”

“Mmhmm?”

“What’d you wanna to do today?”

Trevor looks up at him, one eyebrow mussed with the flour swept across his forehead, his mouth little open, eyes wide peering back. And god, he wishes that damn feeling in his stomach would cut it out. Or hell, maybe he just wishes he wishes it would.

Trevor smiles slowly. “How bout a drive?”

“Where?”

Trevor’s smile leaks into a grin. “Where ever the fuck we end up.”

Michael scoops another bite off his plate, holding his look all the while. “Done.”

 

The Bodhi rips down the highway, narrowly missing three sedans by dodging past three inches from the shoulder.

“Fucking _christ_ ,” Michael swears, snatching at the bar and trying to convince his feet to not to that spastic phantom braking against the floor of the truck.

“Calm those tits down,” Trevor calls, almost clipping a motorcycle as he drags the vehicle back to the center of the road. “I’ve seen how you drive.”

“It’s a bit different when there’s you know, airbags, and other basic safety requirements, like fucking _windows_ —”

“Boy you really did go soft, huh,” Trevor shifts, pulling past a semi. “In all possible ways.” He jabs a finger into Michael’s gut.

“Hey!” Michael snaps. “Fuck off with that shit.”

“With what shit?” He does it again.

“ _That_ shit, now knock it off.”

“Hey it’s not my fault such girth pulls objects into it’s orbit. _That’s_ physics.”

“You’re a real piece of shit, you know that?”

“Least I’m not a fatty.”

“Could still kick your ass,” Michael grumbles, sinking deeper down into the seat. 

“A quaalude sucking librarian could kick your ass these days cupcake - there’s too much of it to miss.”

“Would you shut the fuck up please? Much as I’m enjoying the road-trip of personal shame and physical insecurities.”

Trevor snorts. “Bullshit. You’re not ‘Physically Insecure’.”

“Yeah, because thats exactly the type of thing you get to dictate.”

“I do when I’m _right_.”

“Well you’re not right, okay?”

Trevor’s looking over a him now. “You’re serious?”

“What if I am? Think I like having a couple dozen extra pounds hanging around? Not that the nicknames don’t make it oh-so much more enjoyable.” 

Trevor focuses on the road, flicking on a turn signal for shits before cutting off three rows of traffic and leaving a cacophony of horn blasts and hurled swears behind them.

“It doesn’t actually look _that_ bad, anyways, alright?” he starts again.

Michael glances over. “ ‘Scuse me?”

“The fucking weight. It doesn’t look bad. It’s not like beached sea-life levels or anything like that. It’s… fine.” He clears his throat sharply. “Suits you.”

Michael can’t help raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Suits me? I don’t know if that actually counts as a fucking compliment or not.”

“Yeah well I’m not spoon feeding you this shit so take it however you want, alright?”

Michael leans back against the worn brown leather of the seat. The wind feels good against his skin, short sleeves knocking back and forth against it.

“How’s it suit me?” he can’t help asking.

“Oh for _fuck’s sake_ …”

“No seriously, seriously, indulge me here.”

“Yeah, cause you don’t get enough of that as it is.”

“C’mon, T,” Michael says, leaning his head in his direction against the headrest.

Trevor rolls his eyes hard. “God fuck me, shit, I don’t know, call it a Dad Thing or whatever shit those millennials are always spewing.”

The smirk starts to drag up Michael’s cheeks. “A Dad Thing?”

“Sure, whatever.”

Michael’s smirk pulls into a grin. “A _DILF_ thing?”

“What? Douchebag I’d like to fuck off, yeah, exactly like that.”

Michael chuckles to himself, leaning back in the seat for a moment before Trevor drags the truck almost 180 degrees to bounce down a side-road.

“Fucking _christ_!” Michael roars. “Would you slow down, please.”

“Never. Never ever ever ever,” Trevor sing-songs, curling the truck around the dirt corners.

Michael sinks back into his seat. The ocean falls off wide and indigo to the left, white beaches eased up against it. The air carries the smell of salt and sand all along the road and over the rocky ledges up to meet them. 

“You’re going to end up killing yourself one of these days,” Michael grumbles.

Trevor glances at him. “Oh yeah? And since when do you give a shit about that?”

The guilt twists under his gut. “Fuck off - I’ve told you I give a shit.”

“Oh that wasn’t _another_ lie? I’m sorry, I must have gotten it a little mixed up with the gargantuan pile of shit that came out of your mouth at the exact same time.”

Michael opens his mouth but nothing falls out of it. What the fuck is he going to say anyways?

“Don’t get me wrong though - you loosing your shit when I go radio silent for two minutes in a shoot-out helps,” Trevor grins smugly.

And fuck he really had done that hadn’t he. Funny. All those moments, little things, and big things, and all this time making so much damn sense and there’s him just not seeing it right, like he’d been seeing things in a mirror that twisted them just enough so he couldn’t see clearly, and now… Now it’s like he’s been looking for a word for twenty years and suddenly there it is, falling into place and fitting so well that the rest of the world suddenly makes too much damn sense.

“Yeah, well,” Michael starts again, “shocking though it may be, I _don’t_ want you to kill yourself, and I don’t want anyone else to do it either.” He let’s himself glance over without moving his head, hoping he doesn’t notice he’s looking. “Believe me?”

Trevor focuses on the road, narrowing around a few more turns. They’re going downhill. Closer to the ocean. It seems like he knows where they’re going. Wherever they end up he’d said. That’s all it is in the end anyways isn’t it? Wherever they end up…

“I believe you more than I did yesterday,” Trevor says finally. “And maybe yesterday a bit more than the day before. How’s that?”

Michael’s lips twitch at a smile. “Hey, I’ll take it.”

“Good.”

The truck ka-thunks down the last corner, spinning down onto the beach as Trevor hits the breaks.

He looks over to him, sunglasses flashing against the sunshine. “Wanna beach-comb?”

Michael looks out over the scenery. It’s nice. Quiet. Almost empty. Just the sound of the waves, coast curling and turning along ledges and inlets right along the shore.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

Trevor’s foot is already jamming the gas. The truck digs up a fucking trench of sand as the tires spin before they take off, ripping up the stillness and carving their record into the blank canvas of the sand. 

He’s going fast. Real fucking fast. Michael’s pulse is already up and he can feel that familiar hum that always comes along with that. When things get fast somehow part of him always slows down right along with it. It probably says a good deal about how fucked up he is that he’s not sure he ever feels as calm, as controlled, as ready to look the world right in the face, as when his chance of death is up ten times higher than normal. But it makes things simpler, like most of his brain shuts the fuck up for once and he’s left with just the simple shit: the rich taste of adrenaline on his tongue, the way his blood buzzes, how he forget he’s not supposed to be enjoying the hell out of himself. And fuck, what the hell is—

“Hey, hey—!” he yells, hands scrambling for something to hold onto. “TREVOR!”

“Think I can flip it?!”

“DON’T, FUCK—“

Trevor hits the dune full speed. 

The truck clears it, hanging in the air for what feels like forever before smashing back down onto the sand. It rolls over onto two wheels and just manages to kick itself back with a hard swing, tearing back up the beach.

“Shit!” Michael’s laughing. He may have whooped too. Hard to be sure. Seems likely, based on how hard Trevor is laughing next to him.

The sun’s hanging lower in the sky by the time they get to the top of the ledge. It’s sitting high enough over the sea that there’s a pretty damn good view, although hell, most views out here are pretty damn good. Trevor just gets the truck around the last couple of trees and up over half a boulder, throwing on the e-brake and leaning back with a sigh. It’s a fucking miracle the thing is still running after this damn day. 

Michael leans against his arm propped up on the doorframe, watching the ocean. “Not bad.”

Trevor snorts. “This place. Even the nature looks like something from a movie set.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Would you just reel that shit back for two seconds and admit it’s not bad.”

Trevor evaluates him, eyes narrow. “Fine. Not bad.”

“Thank you.”

“Still like the desert more.”

“Oh yeah. Who doesn’t?” Michael answers sarcastically.

It’s quiet up here. Well, quiet besides the sound of the ocean down below, and the highway a ways behind, and the few birds desperately trying to make themselves heard in the trees above. Trevor props his feet up on the car door and leans back with a sigh, crossing his hands behind his head. Michael lets himself look out of the corner of his eye, hopefully unnoticeable. And there’s that feeling again - that deep _weirdly_ comfortable feeling, which christ, is the last thing anyone should be feeling around Trevor fucking Phillips. But he can’t seem to help it. It’s like there’s something built into him, Pavlovian or whatever the fuck those overpaid douchebags call it. There’s a rhythm to the back and forth: his heart thudding and his pulse racing, that harmony when things move so damn fast, and then this, the breath, the space between, with him right there alongside. It feels… right. And god that’s wrong in at least ten different ways. But he can’t deny it. It feels right. Good. Honest. Alive.

“So,” Trevor starts, “your wife is stealing other hard working entrepreneur’s employees now?”

Michael raises a brow. “What’s that?”

“ _Amanda_ is highjacking my girls. From the club.”

It takes some good self-control not to break into laughter instantly. Michael adjusts in his seat, turning enough to be able to meet his eye. “Alright, first, she’s not my wife anymore, remember?”

“Right, right, so what do we call her? Your Ex? That sounds pretty day-time TV, dontcha think?”

“What happened?”

“Two girls, my _best_ girls, quit yesterday. Say that some _Ms._ De Santa is offering them better pay and fucking _benefits_ to teach dancing to yuppies with more cash than sense.”

Michael can’t help laughing this time. “Seriously?”

“No, I’m joking. This is my idea of fucking hilarious.”

“So what’d you do?” Michael asks, a little worried what the answer’s going to be.

“I said go. They can do what they want. What am I? A _trafficker_? I’m not that low.”

“Not yet,” Michael notes.

“Yeah and fuck you,” Trevor snaps. “Anyways - if there’s one thing this town will never run out of it’s pretentious vanity plates and girls ready to make some cash the easy way.”

“Wait, a second,” Michael starts again, trying to piece this together. “Someone told you Amanda was stealing your employees and you don’t have anything to say about that?”

“I got a little distracted.”

“Oh yeah, I find that hard to believe. Distracted by what? A UFO crashing through the block?”

“They said she was starting a gym as part of a divorce settlement.”

“Yeah but… I told you that. Days ago.”

“Yeah well,” Trevor shrugs.

“Wait, wait,” Michael sits up properly, “are you saying you don’t _believe_ I’m getting divorced until some stripper tells you it’s true?”

“Until _Casey_ tells me it’s true,” Trevor corrects, “and is that a shock to you for some reason?”

“This is why you show up this morning? You fuck off into the hills when I say something but show up again when you actually believe it? You didn’t believe me? Why the hell would I lie about that?”

Trevor meet his eye firmly. Michael holds it, feeling the twist under his gut. Right. Of course. Of fucking course.

He sinks back into his seat, gazing back off over the ocean. It’s quiet for a long moment.

Michael blinks suddenly. “Have I said I’m sorry by the way?”

Behind them a particularly annoying bird let’s out a few good belts. The ocean continues to hum to itself down below as the sun sinks lower, painting the landscape fresh oranges and reds.

“No,” Trevor answers finally. “You haven’t.”

“Well,” Michael swallows. “I am.”

Trevor grunts, staring out past his boots towards the ocean and the sky beyond. 

Michael leans his head back. “God, I really am.”

He can feel Trevor’s eyes against him, just glancing, as if he’s wondering if there’s going to be more.

Michael takes a deep breath. “I fucked up, T. I mean I really fucked up.”

Trevor adjusts his hands behind his head. “How?”

Michael frowns. “What do you mean, how?”

“Well,” he clears his throat slightly. “It’s not _totally_ insane is it? Disloyal. Yes. Slimy. Yes. But… I’m not actually completely damn clueless, Mikey, alright. And I’m sorry for acting like I was. I know that we were in some serious shit and I know you care about her about your kids about… about life. About having a life. A real one.”

“Yeah well, life’s funny like that isn’t it? It never really knows what’s ‘real’.”

“Sure it does,” Trevor says. “We’re just not always good at seeing it.”

“You are.”

“I’m Special.”

Michael laughs, but there’s something wrong. His stomach still feels too tight under him. “Honestly man, really honestly - when that shot hit Brad, when he went down, there was something in me that’s never been so damn happy.”

He can practically feel Trevor’s sneer. “Why’s that? Smell your freedom?”

Michael stares at the edge of the sky. “Because it wasn’t you.”

Trevor doesn’t answer him. He thinks he’s staring at the horizon too, although, with the sunglasses, it’s a little hard to tell.

“Would have been better if it was me,” Trevor says quietly.

“That’s not true.“

“Maybe that’s why I even give a fuck, huh? Brad. I never even liked that asshole. I mean he’s part of the team, you look out for your team, at least _some of us_ do, but really… I think I always knew. Somehow. I always knew he was in the ground and I kept writing him those damn letters and maybe I just did it cause knew it was supposed to be me. Should have been me.”

“It shouldn’t have been,” Michael says firmly. God he wishes his stomach would stop that, twisting like there’s a razor stuck behind his gut, and how is it so much worse now? How does he want to do anything suddenly to make him shut the fuck up and never, ever say that again? “T, seriously. Hey, look at me—”

He does, at least turning his head so it leans against the headrest, eyes hidden under the steely grey of the sunglasses. 

The words are right there. He can almost see them sitting in front of him, but somehow he can’t manage to reach them. Or they can reach him. Maybe he really is just a coward after all.

Michael swallows and holds his look as hard as he can. “It _should not_ have been you. I… I don’t know what would have happened to me if it had been you.”

“You do know. You’re living it. Were living it.”

“No.” Michael says, shaking his head. “I knew you were out there. Somewhere. And… christ, I messed up. I think, I see now that it wasn’t about you. Not really.”

“Mmm, flattering.”

“No, christ, just shut-up, alright, listen: it was about me. You’re — hell, you do something to me man. You always have. It’s like, I’m… myself around you. I don’t have to pretend to be anything else, try to be anything else. I’m just me. And sometimes I’m a dick—“

“Sometimes?”

“Fine, _most of the fucking time_ I’m a dick. And sometimes I’m afraid, and sometimes I’m needy as hell, and whiny as fuck, and sometimes I’m a straight up lunatic, but somehow, with you, I’m always just… me. In the end. No matter what.”

Trevor’s still looking at him. He thinks. Fucking sunglasses.

“Anyways… I think that’s what I didn’t want. Or at least convinced myself I didn’t want. I didn’t like someone looking at me and knowing me. I mean really _knowing_ me. And with Amanda, with the kids, with that deal and this life, I could pretend to be something else. I could be just what they saw. What they wanted to see. Not the full ugly picture with all the mismatched colors and fucked-up edges. But…” he trails off, falling silent against the easy sound of the sea and the breeze in the pines

Trevor’s voice is quiet. “But what?”

Michael hears himself laugh. He doesn’t know if it sounds more bitter or relieved. “I didn’t realize how just fucking lonely I’d be without that.”

The ocean hits the beach below. Just like it always has. That fucking bird finally takes off, looking for someone else to annoy.

“Yeah, well,” Trevor says finally. “I like your fucked up edges. Even the fat ones.”

Michael laughs, this one sounds a little better. Less brittle with a bit more heart behind it. “Oh yeah?”

“Face it Mikey, no matter how fucked your edges are or how muddy your colors get, I’m always one up on you there.”

“Yeah,” Michael smiles, “guess I can’t argue that.”

“What the hell is all this anyways? What happened? Doctor Phil corner you in a men’s room and suck you off or something?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“All introspective and open - bit new for you. Not that it isn’t a damn good change from your usual hyper-masculine denial fueled bullshit.”

Michael shrugs. “I had a good day. It cleared a few things up.” 

“Yeah well, congrats on the existential revelations.” Trevor suddenly shifts, arching his back and reaching behind his seat. “Want a beer?”

“Oh fuck yes, please.”

The sun sinks lower and lower across from them, easing into the sea and setting the colors on fire before they drain away for good. Trevor’s voice flows through all of it, wafting up and down on arguments and anecdotes. Michael drinks his beer, listening more than talking. It feels good, just letting it all drape over him like the breeze in the trees and the light of the sunset. 

He doesn’t feel himself falling asleep, just the sound of Trevor’s voice drifting in between half dreams. His eyes are heavy, opening then shutting, the now warm glass bottle held empty and gentle between his fingers. The temperature drops steadily as the sky darkens, he thinks he shivers but then it’s warm again, his head heavy against the edge of the seat. Somewhere far off he thinks the car is moving, that there’s wind in his hair, but hey, he’s asleep now isn’t he? Who’s to say he isn’t dreaming.

He doesn’t wake up truly until he feels the car brake firmly and Trevor mutter something next to him, “alright, alright”, or “get the fuck out” or something in-between them, maybe the second one with the tone of the first.

Michael blinks, trying to open his eyes. When the hell did beer start making him so tired? It’s been doing that lately. Must be getting old. He glances down. There’s a jacket on him, something that smells leathery. He frowns. When did that happen? Must be why he wasn’t cold.

Trevor pulls the thing off, tossing it into his back seat again. Michael manages to sit up, trying to shove the sleep off enough to manage himself. The lazy weight of the beer in his veins isn’t making it easier. 

Trevor steps out, popping Michael’s door open for him. 

“You got it there, champ?”

Michael grumbles something, just managing not to fall out of the truck and stand up on his own. There’s a hand on his shoulder, moving him towards the door. He makes it there, catching hand on the cool glass. And god he’s tired, funny. Tired feels so different when it’s comfortable. Warmer. Easier.

He fumbles the lock for a moment before finally opening the door, stepping inside. He frowns down at the tiles just inside. He forgot something. There was something he wanted to say. Something he was supposed to say. 

He turns, mouth half open already. The lights of the truck’s tail-lights vanish down his drive. 

Michael watches them go, the gentle sounds of the city around him slipping over the walls around the house. He turns back eventually, voice quiet and alone in the hall. “Night, T.”


	5. Chapter 5

“So, when are we biting this bullet?”

Michael looks up, coffee steaming his sunglasses from where it sits on the round table between them. “What?”

“The kids, Michael,” Amanda says, “when are we telling the kids,” 

“Ah, right.” He leans back, gazing down the street. Another day in fucking paradise, sunlight bouncing between skyscrapers to land on their little Bean Machine patio where a clean white umbrella wards it off again. “So you don’t think they know what’s going on already?”

“Michael,” Amanda gives him that same pitying expression, “it hasn’t even been a full week yet. We’ve been apart for longer before. Anyways they’re both so wrapped up in their own worlds I doubt they’d notice if we didn’t live together for a year.”

Michael snorts. “Yeah, right.”

“We’re going to have to tell them.” 

“I know, I know.”

“Who knows how they’ll react. We’ve been getting along better than we have in years since all this, have you noticed that?”

“Yeah,” Michael smiles, “I noticed. I think they do to.”

“Wouldn’t bet on it.” Amanda sighs, leaning back with her coffee. She looks good. Well, she always looks good. Better. There’s less strain between her eyebrows, and she looks more comfortable, more relaxed. He wonders if he looks better too. That’s a fucking long-shot…

“Let’s do it tomorrow,” Michael says.

Amanda raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Why not? Like a bandaid. Right?”

“Fine,” she agrees, “like a bandaid. Where? When?”

“Have you found a place yet? That place on the beach you were talking about?”

Amanda smiles, small and warm. That was one of those things about her he’d first noticed, how warm she could smile even in the coldest damn weather.

“Yeah,” she answers. “I think I found the perfect spot. Looked at it yesterday. I like it.”

“Great. Get it. We’ll have them meet us there - maybe they’ll love it as much as you do and we can cushion it that way.”

Amanda shakes her head. “You’re always going try to use money to solve your problems for you, are you?”

“Hey, if it works it works,” he shrugs. “Anyways, I’m stupid enough that violence is usually the only fallback plan so money’s a pretty good first option.”

She laughs. He hasn’t heard that for a while. It sounds nice, natural, like it used to. 

“God,” Michael starts again, “has it seriously just been a week since that walk on the beach?”

“Weird, huh?”

“Very. Christ, you’ve been moving fast, huh?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Someone might have mentioned you’ve be nabbing strippers off their payroll.”

“Oh, that,” Amanda’s smile slinks across her lips. “Well, I think I can call that just desserts on multiple levels.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Are you going to tell the kids you’re, uh…” her face twists with hardly contained disgust, “… seeing him?”

“Uh, well,” and hell he can feel himself blushing, when did he turn into an actual thirteen year-old with a fucking crush and just as much capability handling it. God, that’s not even right is it? Thirteen year olds seemed to do alright with their crushes. At least they manage to blurt out “I like-like you doofus” or slow-dance three feet apart, which is more than he’s accomplished. Did they have slow-dances for middle aged jackasses who have reached apocalyptic romantic cross-roads?

“That’s not, exactly—“ he tries to start again, “I mean, we’re not—“

“You said…” Amanda starts tentatively, “You are…? Still?”

“I know what I said. And yeah I am. Still.”

“Soooo…?”

Michael groans, wrapping a hand around the warmth of his coffee. “I just… haven’t gotten around to mentioning it yet, alright?”

Amanda frowns. “Why not?”

“Well, why do I have to, huh? Maybe I don’t. At all. Maybe that doesn’t even have to come into it. I don’t exactly… _want_ anything out of whatever the hell this is, and things are good, solid, so why do I have to say anything, right? I mean how would I even _say_ something like that? Just ‘oh hey, by the way, pretty sure I’ve been in love with you for twenty-five years, just FYI, sorry if my repressed bullshit made me try to get you shot in the face because of it’. That wouldn’t work. Right? Would it? No. No, that’s fucking insane—”

“Michael?” Amanda’s staring back at him. 

“Yeah?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m enjoying this, us, getting along. I like getting coffee like friends, and not seriously thinking about poisoning your scotch after I’ve had the wrong set of pills. But - and I mean this as kindly as is reasonably possible: I could not give less of a fuck about why and how and when you confess your bizarre and frankly _deeply_ disturbing affections for a murderous, unwashed, balding, meth addict. And I really can’t be your sounding board for _anything_ that comes close to that area.”

Michael stares back at her. “Right. That, uh… I guess that makes sense.”

Amanda narrows her eyes. “You don’t have, how do I put this, um, _anyone_ else you could talk this through with?”

Michael’s quiet for a moment. “I really don’t have any fucking friends do I?”

“Not really, no.”

“Fucking Trevor’s a psychopath roaming the desert, blowing up drug labs, and shooting up hicks and even _he_ manages to scrounge together a posse. What the hell is my problem?”

“Well, you can be pretty passive aggressive. And you know… generally depressing.”

“Thanks, Mand.”

“Oh come on,” she presses, “there must be _someone_. What about that um, protege?”

“Who?”

Amanda rolls her eyes. “The one who stole our car.”

“Franklin?”

“Right.”

“God, I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear about this bullshit.”

“Michael.”

“Yeah?”

“No one does,” she smiles pityingly. “It’s weird. And frankly disgusting. But you apparently need to talk to someone, so give it a try?”

“Yeah,” he admits, “yeah I guess so.”

Amanda stands, taking her coffee with her. “I have to meet the inspector at that house in twenty minutes.”

“Yeah, right, good luck,” Michael says, attention still distant.

“So, see you tomorrow? Say two or something like that?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.”

She watches him, his gaze hanging on the air across the patio. Gently she puts a hand on his shoulder. “Hey?” He glances up at her. She meets his eyes. “You happy?”

He focuses, reality slipping back around. “Yeah. I think I actually am. A bit fucking terrified. But happy. What about you?”

She smiles back. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Good.”

She turns, hand leaving his shoulder, and the click of her boots follows her all the way back to the sidewalk.

Michael stays where he is, staring across the street without focusing on anything in particular. Finally, he slips his hand around his phone. It doesn’t take long to dial.

“‘Sup?” the answer comes.

“Hey, Franklin.”

“Hey man, what’s goin’ on?”

“Hey, am I… ‘generally depressing’.”

He doesn’t even pause. “Yeah, dog. I mean generally.”

Michael grumbles. “Yeah. Great. Thanks.”

“That why you called?”

“Nah. Want to do something? Food?”

“I could eat. Meet at the boardwalk spot?”

“Yeah, great. I’ll be there in a few.”

 

It had been raining earlier in the morning, but the sun was high now and almost all the clouds have fucked off for the day, leaving crisp blue behind and damp boards drying steadily in the sun under his shoes. 

There’s the same sounds as usual out here, squealing kids and wandering couples, guys shouting back and forth, girls laughing. The smell of fried dough and popcorn and all the rest of the junk they always sell catches up against the saltiness of the beach. Michael nudges his sunglasses back up his nose, heading across the boardwalk to lean against the worn metal railing, peering out at the ocean. He’s been doing that more often lately. Staring at the damn scenery. Although, all considered, that’s one of the less weird tendencies he’s developed in the past week.

“Hey,” Franklin’s voice calls. 

Michael turns.

“Yo,” Lamar adds.

Perfect. Fucking perfect.

“Yeah,” Michael manages, “what’s up?”

“Just another perfect damn day, homie,” Lamar beams back at him.

“That’s what those tax dollars get us, huh,” Michael says.

“The fuck you talking about, man? Like you even pay your damn taxes,” Lamar says.

“Ran into Lamar on the way here,” Franklin breaks in, tone already tired, “he figured you wouldn’t mind him coming along.”

“Yeah well why the fuck not? Less I’m steppin’ on whatever Han Solo shit you two have going on?”

“Han Solo?” Michael asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah that Jedi mentor scene, whatever the fuck.”

“That’s Obi Wan Kenobi.”

“Oh well ‘scuse the shit out of me Spielberg.”

“That’s not… know what, never mind.”

“Hey,” Lamar starts again, apparently not hearing Franklin, “don’t get bitchy with me cause I find better shit to do with my time than jack off to old ass movies. You wanna to go back to whatever sensei shit you two have to get done, I’ll just fuck right off, huh?”

“Nah, nah, it’s fine,” Michael insists.

“Yeah? Fine? Cause you lookin’ at me like I’m some street performer that got a little too close to your personal bubble.”

“No, christ I said it’s fine, alright?”

“Give him a break, dog,” Franklin grumbles. “Come on, let’s get that food.”

They start to follow Franklin slowly towards the food trucks. Lamar tosses up his hands innocently. “Hey, no problems here homie, I’m fine. Hell, more than fine. Shit, if you bored of Franklin here and want a new project I’m all ears. I could use a few extra million hangin’ around.”

“Yeah,” Michael snorts, “something tells me we’re not doing another job like that again.”

“Oh yeah, why not?”

“That was _it_. That was _the_ job - the one we always talked about: The Big One. So there’s not really anywhere to go from there.”

“Shit homie that’s depressing statement,” Lamar shakes his head.

“Hey, not for me, I’m good, just fine,” Michael returns.

“‘Fine’. Yeah. Real convincin’. You seriously sayin’ that if a year from now you didn’t see some juicy-ass opportunity to throw down and clean up, you wouldn’t take it?”

Michael hesitates. “Well… I didn’t exactly say that.”

Franklin has a small smile on his face. “Yeah man, you didn’t say that.”

“Shit, well alright then - you just remember to give me a call this time, right motherfuckers?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Franklin brushes off.

Michael ends up grabbing one of the fish tacos off the trucks. It’s a compromise, that sweet spot between enough flavor to still feel like food and not hating himself two hours later for housing a burger in under five minutes and still feeling hungry. And it tastes good - damn good, flaky and golden with cilantro sauce and those little pickled onions on the top. That’s one thing he never misses about the mid-west, even Canada, hell especially Cananda. The food down here was really something. He’s not sure he could ever live someplace without tamales on every corner again. 

“Did you wanna to talk bout something, homie?” Franklin asks, swallowing a bite of his hotdog next to him on the bench. 

“What?” Michael starts, “Ah shit, right uh, no - it’s nothing?”

“Sounds like sumthin’,” Lamar adds helpfully, fist deep in a box of fries.

“It’s - it doesn’t matter. Another time.”

“Oh I see, more of your old dudes club bullshit,” Lamar continues, “too much for lil Lamar here to handle. Man whatever, fuck you.”

“Hey!” Michael can’t help snapping. “I said it was nothing!”

“Sounds like sumthin’,” Franklin grins into his lunch.

“Very fucking helpful, thank you,” Michael grumbles.

“No come on man, what’s up? Lay it on me, I’m good at all this soul-searching bullshit,” Lamar says.

“What ‘soul-searching bullshit’?”

“All the crap you’ve been up to lately, like some reverse mid-life crisis, Kevin Spacey running bare-ass naked through rose petals, bullshit. Least that’s what Franklin says.”

“Thanks. Again.”

“Hey,” Franklin says, “I didn’t say shit bout Spacey’s ass - don’t know where that’s comin’ from.”

“Nah, nah come one, I bet I can guess what’s up - it’s always two fuckin’ things, right?”

Michael can’t help feeling amused. He’s a fun kid. There’s no denying that. “Is that right? What two things?”

“Bitches and bills.”

Franklin snorts. “Dog those are your fuckin’ problems, way to project that shit.”

“Nah, them’s the world’s fuckin’ problems man. I bet it’s one of those. And let’s see, since you’re a recent Mr. Fucking-Monopoly, my money’s on the first one. That right?”

Michael pauses. “You’re… yeah, you know, I guess that actually is right, and completely fucking _not_ at the same time.”

“Ah alright fuckin’ Bilbo, riddle me this motherfucker, how’s that pan out?”

“You know that fucking hobbit’s tell riddles but you don’t know who Han Solo is?”

“Man it’s selective pop fucking culture, alright. Now c’mon, spill. What’s up? Divorce shit? Heard that was goin’ down?” 

“Nah, that’s actually all good. Weirdly good. Kinda freaky good.”

“Freedom, huh,” Lamar grins.

“Yeah but, not like that - hell freedom from my own bullshit more like,” Michael says.

“See man there he goes again,” Franklin says.

“Mhmmmm,” Lamar hums knowingly, “Spacey’s Ass.”

“I am not Kevin Spacey’s fucking ass, alright, christ!”

“ ‘Aight, ‘aight, Imma narrow this shit down, you watch Franklin, learn something from this level of fuckin’ insight, right? So: you gettin’ divorced. Million big ones says you’ve got something else on the side. Hell that’s why old white dudes like you always split. Divorces. Piece on the side. _Bitches_. Bam. Fuckin’ Blue Clused that motherfucker.”

“I don’t have a fucking piece on the side,” Michael grumbles.

“Oh yeah? So you’re tellin’ me that some wandering heart wandering dick whatever the hell’s got no part to play in all this?”

Michael pauses. Longer than he should.

“HA!” Lamar yells. “Nailed. Don’t play the player homie.”

Franklin glances over at him. “Seriously, man? There’s something else, fuck, someone else, whatever?”

Michael stomach is already wriggling around like a damn worm on a hook. And hell, what fucking difference does it make? Isn’t that what he’s doing here to begin with? He’d already have taken the damn leap and fessed up if it wasn’t for the unexpected company and why the hell did that matter anyways?

“Yeah,” he manages, voice more strained than he knows it should be, but christ he’s probably dropped three levels on this inevitable hell mailing address just by admitting this.

“Damn dog, aight’,” Lamar slaps his hands together. “Details, details, she fine?”

“Oh christ,” Michael groans, dropping his head to his hands.

“Damn homie, that good?”

“No! Christ. Fuck me…”

“Damn man well it got to be pretty sweet, fuckin’ pussy makin’ you weep man.”

Michael groans and leans back hard, craning his neck and opening his eyes. The blue sky stares back. God. Does his life just continue to fuck him endlessly and ironically right up the ass?

“It’s fucking Trevor, alright?”

Franklin’s brow furrows. “Excuse me?”

“It’s fucking Trevor. I have _a thing_ for fucking Trevor.”

They both stare back at him. “Yeah no shit. We’re askin’ what’s this new thing?”

Michael sits up instantly. “There _is_ no… What the fuck do you mean _’no shit’_?!”

“I mean No Shit,” Lamar says bluntly. “You two pretty much seem four tequilas away from fucking in the closest bathroom at _all times_ , so yeah.”

Michael can’t seem to find anything to say. His gaze manages to make it to Franklin with dumb peering confusion.

Franklin shrugs. “Yeah, man I mean… it’s pretty obvious that there’s some shit there.”

“Yeah!” Michael can’t help yelling. “There is shit there. Massive piles of shit - not, not, whatever the hell this is now!”

“Wait, wait,” Lamar holds up a palm, “back it up. You two _aren’t_ fucking? I mean you can tell us, I ain’t got no bias or any of that shit. It’s no big thing. Seems pretty obvious, you know, with them long ass looks and that rage and the tension and… shit. You’re really not fucking?”

“NO! Christ no, what the hell?!”

“Damn dog, I’m sorry I just assumed, you know.”

“I don’t fucking know! I’m sure Franklin didn’t fucking _assume_ either.”

“Well…” Franklin trails.

Michael stares. “You’re kidding me.”

“Look man, you two have, like… fuck it, an energy, or whatever alright? It’s easy to assume shit like that.”

“What fucking energy or whatever?!”

“Always yellin’ and bitchin’ and all that,” Lamar agrees.

“And how the fuck does that turn into whatever the hell everyone apparent _assumes_ we’re fucking doing?”

“Hey man,” Lamar smiles, “I can’t remember anytime I lost my shit over anyone to that level if I wasn’t fucking then already or trying to fuck them as soon as possible if you feel me.”

“ _You two_ argue all the time!” Michael pushes back.

“Nah, nah man, not like you two. Not like our damn universes revolve around the other’s fucking state of being. And uh, you both kinda have… a look.”

“… A _look_?” Michael glares at Franklin.

Franklin sighs. “Yeah a’ight. There’s a fuckin’ look.”

“ _What_ fucking look?”

“Like, uh, the other person’s got fuckin’ like extra colors no one else has… or something lame as hell like that.” 

“Jesus christ,” Michael groans, leaning his head back again and shutting his eyes tight.

“So, uh,” Franklin starts again after a moment, “you guy’s aren’t…?”

“No!” Michael shouts back.

“So, you never, ever - like at all…?”

“ _No!_ ”

“Shit, man. I’m not gonna lie, that _is_ a surprise. I mean I thought there was least _something_ goin’ on, and Lester man—“'

Michael’s head snaps up again. “What about fucking Lester?”

“He just said it’s _always_ been like that with you two, that there’s _’history’_ and _’baggage’_ and I know he was _sure_ you two were fucking back then, so—“

“What the fuck is happening here?” Michael jolts forward. “Does _everyone_ we know think there’s something going on!”

“Shit, well yeah, I mean… I’d guess so. Hell, Haines and fucking Weston I think had a pool going on who drove and who, you know—“ Franklin clears his throat awkwardly. “Anyways…”

Michael leans forward, forearms on his knees. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel especially capable of doing much else besides staring at the gum stuck on the planks of the boardwalk. 

“Am I…” he starts. Then stops. Then swallows. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

Lamar smiles. “Hey homie, we’re all fucking idiots, a’ight? Accept that. Roll on.”

Michael sighs, dropping his head into his hands. Fine. Maybe everyone is an idiot. But he should at least get a medal, a Honorable Mention. Something. Maybe a cape with “Captain Moron” sewn onto the back of it in big shiny gold letters.

“Wait, so, uh,” Franklin starts again. “This is why you split with your wife?”

Michael stares into the darkness of his own hands against his eyes. “Yes. No. Shit. I don’t know. Yes. But it’s just a, what’s it called, a catalyst, or whatever. There were lots of damn good reasons for splitting up I just… saw them a little better, _see_ them a little better. Shit.”

“Man,” he hears Lamar hum, “you’re kind fucked up over this, homie, huh?”

“Yeah, well, excuse me for being the only one who’s still getting my damn head around this concept.”

“Hell man, you don’t need to stress,” Franklin shrugs. “So what, you haven’t said anything to him yet?”

“No,” Michael groans.

“And that’s what got you so fucking stressed? Shit, that’s nothing. Just tell him. Easy, done.”

“Where does that come from: easy, done? I’m pretty sure anything close to that coming out of my mouth would result in the exact opposite of easy fucking done. Chernobyl comes to mind.”

“Fuck homie, just suck it _up_ ,” Lamar rolls his eyes, “he’ll probably suck it right the hell up the second you say anything if you know what I mean. Looks like he’s been waiting to for half a fucking century.”

“God! _Please_ , shut the fuck up! I don’t need that in my head _at all_ thank you… fucking hell.”

“What? You don’t want him sucking you off?”

“Yo!” Franklin yells, face twisting in disgust. 

“ _Stop saying that_ ,” Michael yells, cheeks already feeling like they’re on fucking fire. “ _No_ , shit, alright, no, that’s not— that’s not what this is.”

Lamar frowns. “Then what the hell is it?”

“I just…” Michael sighs. “I just saw him, okay. After that crazy day. After Devon and the sunset and… I saw him. Really fucking looked at him, for the first time in a long fucking time I think. Without my bullshit, and the world’s bullshit, and hell, _morality_ , and all the rest of that, and I just - christ, I just want him to know… I care. Alright? More than I admitted. Or realized. A lot fucking more. I want him to know that.”

It’s quiet for a moment. 

“Well shit, I got a boombox and some 80’s sneakers you could borrow,” Lamar says.

“Fuck off,” Michael growls.

“Fine, fine,” Lamar continues, “look aight, cuttin’ the bullshit: you wanna tell him what’s goin’ on?”

“For the fifth fucking time: yeah, that’s what I want.”

“Easy. What’d you do with anyone else?”

“What?”

“Say you wanted to tell some chick you wanted to get serious, what’d you do then?”

“Uh,” Michael blinks trying to focus. “Shit I don’t know, buy some damn jewelry.”

Franklin snorts.

“What?”

“Nah, nuthin, I just… I got a mental image going.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “No fucking jewelry.”

“How bout dinner?” Lamar tries. “Huh? That’s a classic. Nice fancy dinner.”

“Yeah we, uh,” Michael starts, “we don’t exactly _do_ that.”

“That’s the point though, right homie: dinner out, nice classy-ass place. That’s date shit right there, real shit, _different_. Saves you half the trouble of saying so.”

Michael stares across the boardwalk. “Yeah?”

“Hell yeah!”

Christ. How the hell has his life come to this? Sitting next to two punk kids wolfing down hot dogs, complaining about his inability to communicate his fucking crush on a mass murderer, and actually hanging on their damn advice.

He glances to Franklin. “What’d you think, kid?”

Franklin shakes his head. “Shit man, I’m involved enough with y’all’s bullshit as it is, let alone handin’ out damn dating advice.”

“Right…” Michael trails.

“Anyway,” Franklin adds with a sigh, “that’s not exactly my own strong suit.”

“Yeah well, you both in luck, cause it’s mine,” Lamar says firmly. ”Trust me here, homie. Worth a shot at least right?”

Michael sighs, leaning back into the bench. The sun feels warm against his shoulders. The planks on the boardwalk finally look dried out again. “Yeah. Fuck it. Worth a shot.”

 

It’s late by the time he gets back to the house - he’s not exactly sure how late, but the lull of the traffic outside is a pretty good indicator.

The house is empty. Again. Still. Strange, how quiet it got so fast. He lets the door swing shut behind him, heading into the kitchen, but it doesn’t help. Even the kitchen feels hollow.

Maybe Amanda has the right idea after all. Maybe he should find another place. This place was never a home so much as a postcard, that picture of just what it was supposed to be, or what he thought it was supposed to be, and now, with this clarity falling in around him, it doesn’t feel like a real house, more like nothing but a model someone can look at in a magazine. 

He tugs open the freezer. A fat tub of ice-cream stares back at him. It’s the good kind, the kind that looks like they swept up the bakery floor after a busy day and dumped all the scraps right into it. It doesn’t take him long to bust the thing open, stabbing a spoon into the hard frozen surface as he leans hard against the counter-top.

He takes a few bites, alone in the quiet of the house. What a life. What a picture of fucking mental health he is, huh? He’s sure he looks like something out of a psychology text book, probably with “The Pits of Middle Age” slapped under it in neat textbook font.

The day flits idly around his head. The coffee, the boardwalk, the sinking horrifying knowledge that everyone _except_ for him has been aware of exactly what is going on in his head behind some heavily reinforced curtains of self-loathing and denial. Maybe that should be comforting. Maybe Trevor knows already… hell, he’s not sure what frightens him more: the thought that Trevor knows all this as well as anyone else, or that he’s as oblivious as Michael apparently is.

_”You’re not fucking?”_

Christ. That had been the topper. No - they hadn’t been _fucking_. In fact, shocking as it might be to literally everyone, Michael hasn’t been fucking anything. Not for a while. A long while. Maybe that’s why the idea had been such a punch to the gut. 

It seems strange, the sexlessness, even now, but it had settled in one day, and before he realized it, and then it was just… there. He and Amanda hadn’t been like that for a while, years, and then one month he just did without, and one month turned into two, and two turned into six, and six turned into… well, it was a habit that was unexpectedly easy to keep once he got started. And now, now it’s just another towering cliche of his monumental midlife crisis. He wonders when the last time he even seriously thought about sex was. He had enough on his plate. Life just seemed a little easier to bear these days without that sort of hassle. 

He’d meant that, too. What he’d said. This wasn’t about _that_. Not at all, and hell he didn’t think he even wanted it to be. It was about something more, something honest for once in his damn life.

He looks down at the ice-cream, spoon still hanging off his lower lip.

“Fuck it,” he mumbles around it.

He slides his phone out of his pocket, dialing before he can regret it. It rings once. He jams the spoon back into the ice-cream.

“Yeah?” Trevor’s voice yells from the other end.

Michael freezes.

There’s a pause. Then, finally, “If this is a butt dial I swear to god—”

“Yeah, no,” he clears his throat hard, “hey.”

“What’s up?”

“Nothing, I just, uh…”

Trevor waits. Then sighs. “I’m on fucking pins and needles here, Mikey.”

“Wanna get dinner?” he blurts.

“What? Now?”

“No!” and shit that came out more panicked than he meant. “No, no, not _now_. Uh, tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Why the fuck not? I eat.”

“Yeah, I know,” Michael grumbles. The ice-cream stares back at him, gloating. “I’ll pick you up, alright? Call it seven?”

“Whatever,” Trevor returns. “That all?”

“Yeah,” Michael manages. “That’s all.”

“Great. Enjoy your ice-cream.”

“Oh _for fuck’s sake!_ ” Michael yells, glaring around at the windows. “I told you to stop creeping around here!”

“I’m not. Why? You really eating ice-cream? At your house. Alone?”

“That was a fucking shot in the dark?”

“Good guess, huh?”

“Stop creeping around.”

“Hey - free country.”

“Good night, T.”

“Nighty night, Mikey.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks so much to everyone who's enjoying the story / commenting, etc. - it makes me so glad people are enjoying reading it as much as I am writing it!
> 
> [Here's a Fic Mix!](http://8tracks.com/fortinbrasftw/congrats-on-the-existential-revelations)

Michael checks Amanda’s directions twice before he finally drives up the the house. It wasn’t that it was hard to find, exactly the opposite in fact, he’s just still having a hard time believing that his life really is this ironically predictable.

The metal gates out front slide open and he pulls up under the overhang next to the red sedan. Amanda’s already heading out the front to meet him as he shuts his car door.

“Look at that, you’re here. Finally.”

“ _This_ is the house?” Michael exclaims, stepping back to take a full look, to really make sure.

“Yeah, what? Not up to your taste level?” she calls back sarcastically.

Michael narrows his eyes at the property. The mountain-side geometric design, the curling landscaping in the front, the stretching porches in the back… 

“Did they, uh, say anything about the previous owner?”

“Some rich jackass,” she shrugs, “like everyone else in this town. Disappeared a few weeks ago. The place is owned by one of his corporations so he could skip out on the taxes and now that he’s vanished the corporation wants to ‘liquidate the assets’ or whatever it’s called. Lucky me.”

“Yeah,” Michael agrees. “Lucky you.”

“He’s probably living off of tax evasion savings on some island in the middle of the Caribbean right now.” 

“Yeah.” That. Or slowly decomposing on the bottom of the ocean fifty miles further up the road. “Probably.”

“You don’t think it’s gorgeous?”

Michael turns, walking towards her. “Nah, it’s not that. It is beautiful. Really, Mand.”

“I think so,” Amanda beams, looking around at the palms and the scenery. “Wait till you see the view in the back.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s fantastic.” He heads up the front steps behind her. “You don’t think it’s a little uh, big?”

“You mean expensive?”

“No, no,” he hurries, “I mean… big. You’re gonna be up here by yourself? Lots of room…”

“Who says I’ll be up here by myself?”

“Ah. Right.”

“The kids are inside already, I drove them up here.”

Michael takes a deep breath. “Right. Good. Okay.”

“You ready?” She holds her hand against the front door.

“What’d you tell them on the way up here - what are they thinking?”

“I said we were looking a new houses. Considering they were almost shot in the last one.”

“Yeah… right. Alright. Fuck it, let’s go.”

Amanda smiles once, stress still apparent on her face. She pushes the door open.

The inside of the house looks like some cover of the German World of Anal Interiors. Spacious, cool, minimal furniture. And bright, damn bright. The entire side facing the cliff is nothing but glass, and beyond is just the seemingly endless surface of the Pacific.

“Damn,” he can’t help. “Not bad.”

He glances to the side of the door. There’s four pairs of running shoes in different vibrant colors lined up neatly by a tennis raquet.

“Oh yeah,” Amanda notes, noticing his attention. “I think the house dresser left those to convey the ‘active lifestyle’ of this place.”

“Yeah…” Michael glares at the shoes. “I’m sure.”

He can hear raised voices out toward the expansive porch.

“I said _dibs_ Jimmy! You don’t even like the pool! Why do you care if your room is closer to it?”

“Hey, I never said I didn’t like pools. Who the hell doesn’t like pools?”

“People who look like _belugas_ when they try to use them, _god_. Do you even _go_ into the sun these days?”

“Yeah, my loss. Say hello to skin cancer for me, okay?”

Michael sighs. “We’d better get out there.”

Amanda rolls her eyes with a tired nod, heading down the thin metal stairs and out the opened sliding glass doors.

“Hey, hey, enough,” Michael calls.

“Daddy!” Tracey squeals instantly, “are we really getting this place?”

Michael glances at Amanda. She pinches the bridge of her nose with two fingers.

“Uh, yeah, that’s right,” he starts, unable to keep from smiling back at her. “If you like it. What’d yah think?”

“Oh my god, it’s _gorgeous_!” Tracey continues, spinning to look out at the view again.

“Yeah, not bad,” Jimmy chimes in. “Pretty dope.”

“Yeah, well, your mom found it so you can thank her.”

“For finding a house?” Jimmy starts. “Like that’s hard in this town? Half the fucking city’s in foreclosure.”

“Watch it, Jim,” Michael snaps.

“It’s _fab_ ,” Tracey continues, “I mean we really were due for it, you know, Crystal’s been in four new houses since we’ve been in the last one and it was really starting to get embarrassing.”

“If you kids like it then we’re taking it,” Amanda says. “I think it’s a great place to be. There’s a path on the side there that leads down to the private beach.”

“Oh my gosh, _yes_ , we can _finally_ have beach parties!”

“It is pretty sweet,” Jimmy agrees. 

“But there’s… there’s something else we want to talk to you about,” Amanda says, arms crossing and uncrossing in front of her chest.

“When can we move in?” Tracy interrupts. 

“Today,” Amanda pushes forward, “but there’s,” she pauses, expression falling onto Michael’s with uncomfortable concern.

Michael swallows. Alright. He started the whole crazy thing anyways, didn’t he. That’s only fair. Christ.

“Alright, look. We’re splitting up. Your mom and me.”

Tracey turns around. “What? Again?”

“No, not again,” Michaels sighs, “not like that. For real this time.”

Jimmy stares from him to Amanda. “Mom? Seriously?”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling gently. “Seriously, sweetie.”

“Why? What happened?” Tracey starts, face already sinking. “What did you do, _Dad_?”

Michael opens his mouth but Amanda gets there first. “He didn’t do anything. No, actually, he did something. For the first time in a long time, and I’m glad.”

“But,” Jimmy starts, “you’ve been, like… getting along.”

“Yeah, Jim, I know,” Michael continues, “we’ve been getting along since we made this decision and I think it just goes to show it’s a decent one.”

“Yeah, but,” Tracey continues, eyebrows furrowing, “ _why_?” 

“We, uh,” Michael frowns, gazing out across the porch and the pool to the ocean and beyond. “We weren’t happy.”

Jimmy snorts. Loudly. Michael turns. 

“What?” Amanda asks. 

“You’re not _happy_?” Jimmy pushes back, “that’s why you’re getting divorced?”

“That’s right,” Amanda continues.

“Listen: Mom, Dad,” Jimmy levels, “ _no one_ is fucking happy!”

“Jimmy!” Amanda snaps.

“No, seriously, seriously, _no one_. Not one person in this town is fucking happy. That’s how this goes. That’s how _life_ goes, okay so maybe just suck it up?”

“See,” Michael suddenly pushes, pointing a finger right back at him, “ _that_ , that right fucking there is exactly why this is such a good idea. It’s our damn fault you think that’s how things are.”

“Uh, no it isn’t,” Jimmy says.

“ _Yes_ , it is!” Michael can’t help raising his voice.

“Alright, Michael,” Amanda tries.

“Right, no sorry,” he reels back, “but no - honestly, honestly this is exactly what the point is with all of this. That’s not how things should be, alright kids? People should be able to be happy. It’s not a myth or some imaginary thing that people just talk about in movies.”

“Uh,” Jimmy starts again, “yeah. It totally is.”

“ _No_ , it’s not!”

“Well now _I’m_ not happy, okay,” Tracey calls, “does that make you _happy_? Huh, Dad?”

“No, look, christ-“ Michael growls a sigh and takes a deep breath. “This town is pretty fucked up alright. It’s got into our heads, and hell maybe it isn’t this town, maybe it’s the whole damn world, but I know, I _know_ that we can be happier. All of us. That’s an option. It’s not bullshit and it’s not some pipe-dream, it’s just simple, honest, decent happiness. Okay?”

“Since when did you do anything honest _or_ decent?” Jimmy shoves back.

“Since right fucking now, okay? I’m trying,” he gestures to Amanda who’s watching him with a small smile even though her brows are still creased with worry. “ _We_ are trying. And guess what? It’s fucking working. Alright?”

“What does that mean ‘it’s working’?” Tracy asks.

Michael let’s his arms fall open with a short laugh. “I’m happy, alright? I’m miserable too, and terrified, and I still hate myself. But I feel… good. Better than I have in a long time. And we’re getting along better than we ever have, and I like that too.”

“Mom?” Tracy asks. “You too?” 

Amanda smiles back at her. “Yeah, hun. I feel good. It’s good. Better.”

“That’s _not_ ,” Jimmy sighs, “look, no offense, but this kinda sounds like some crappy film plot where you break up and find happiness and become friends and then end up together again, so can we just cut out the middle and save ourselves the hassle?”

“Nah, Jim,” Michael says calmly, “that’s not what this is. Sure, we’re friends. Still. Hell, always, I hope. But we’re not getting back together.”

Amanda steps closer to them. “That’s right. But look, this has nothing to do with you two.”

“Oh yeah, bring on the fucking cliches,” Jimmy groans.

“Hey!” Michael snaps. “Look, nothing’s going to change, okay?”

“ _Of course_ things are going to change!” Tracey yells. “We’re not all going to live together anymore? We’re not going to live here? This was all some lie!”

“ _You_ are going to live here. If you want,” Michael continues. “This is going to be your mom’s new place. I’ll keep the other house downtown. For now at least. And you can be there too if you want. Whenever you want. Yeah?”

Tracy’s lower lip is still sticking out further than it should but she seems to actually be considering things. “Two houses?”

“Two houses.”

Jimmy sighs, dropping down onto the nearest pool-chair. “I can’t believe this is actually finally fucking happening.”

“It’s going to be better,” Amanda says firmly. “It already is.”

“This _really_ isn’t dad’s fault?” Tracey asks. “He isn’t marrying some college hooker mistress or something disgusting like that?”

“ _No_ , he’s not.” Amanda says firmly.

“ _Honestly_?” Tracy pushes.

“Honestly,” Amanda answers. But Michael can’t help but notice that there’s something in her expression he’d almost call smirking. Christ. One thing at a time, right?

“So,” Michael tries. “We okay?”

Tracy stares at where her pink flip-flops meet the stained wood of the porch. Jimmy gazes into his hands crossed across his knees.

“You really have been getting along better, haven’t you?” Jimmy mumbles.

“And it’s really not going to be that different? You’re not moving to Liberty City or anything crazy like that?” Tracy asks.

“I’m staying right here. With you two. We both are.” Michael answer firmly. “I love you. Both of you. And I’m never going anywhere far enough where I won’t be able to keep you safe twenty-four-seven.”

“That’s a little creepy, honestly dad,” Jimmy says.

“Yeah, well, keep yourself out of trouble for two weeks in a row and maybe I’ll loosen up there.”

Tracey sighs heavily, crossing her arms tight across her chest. “Alright. Fine. Maybe this isn’t _so_ bad. But only if I _still_ should get the room by the pool!”

“Bull _shit_!” Jimmy yells.

Michael tilts his head towards Amanda and winks. She smiles back. 

 

It’s almost six by the time he gets back to the house. The day slipped by without him realizing it, but suddenly the need to be Part of a Family was oddly overwhelming and they ended up spending more time together that afternoon than they had since the kids learned how to drive. 

And now here he is. Walking back into the empty house and shutting the door behind him with less than an hour until… crap. His stomach is already starting to twist around under his skin like something alive jammed into a box too small. Michael let’s himself collapse onto the stairs, sitting with his arms hung over his knees. 

What the hell was he thinking? There’s too much that could go wrong with this. In fact, go wrong is probably putting it a little too lightly. There’s too much that could ignite like napalm raining down from the heavens with this. 

If there was a con with this much risk involved, he’d never think twice about it. He’d shove the idea right off without a second thought. But this isn’t a con is it? It’s a date. Sort of. Kind of. A date that only he knows is a date. What the hell happens when, if, Trevor realizes what’s happening, when, if, Michael actually manages to spill his guts about this whole fucked up situation? What if… what if it ruins everything? Makes it worse, worse than it ever was before?

He’s been feeling good. Great really. He and Amanda have been getting along so well - today with the kids was better than it’s felt in years, hell maybe a decade, and he’s got Franklin, and everything with Trevor, well, it’s been great too, better than ever. He’s going to risk all that now? Risk every bit of that exploding in his face. Trevor’s unpredictable to say the least. Someone didn’t give him a receipt at a gas station once without asking and he lit the counter on fire. Who knows how he’d react to something like _this_. Maybe he’ll just reach right across the four-star restaurant table and strangle him to death, or take his eyes out with the salad fork, or just gut him with the nearest steak knife hara-kiri style. Hell, he’s probably never even had anyone tell him they loved him once in his life, there’s no knowing how he’ll react.

Michael blinks.

Shit. And that’s just it isn’t it? That’s what it comes down to. 

Hell… maybe knowing that someone, that one single fucking person, is going to tell Trevor that they care and mean it, just once in his life, is worth getting drowned in a bolognese sauce over.

“Fuck, alright,” he mutters, doing his best to buck himself up as he stands on the stairs. “Just a date. Like any other date. Right?”

When’s the last time he was on a damn date? He _used_ to be good at it. _Damn_ good at it. But it’s been a while… What the hell did he even do back then? 

Shower. Shower’s probably a good start. 

By the time he’s dressed and hurrying down the stairs again he’s cutting it closer than he’d like, but thankfully traffic for once isn’t something straight out of the bowels of hell.

Michael stops at a light, tapping a few nervous fingers against the steering wheel. He glances up, peering back at himself in the rearview mirror. He looks like he’s going on a fucking date: dark hair combed back after that shower, he didn’t shave but that’s the stupid half-beard look now so that doesn’t matter. He’s even got a damn suit on, that grey one with that off-white creamy sorta sweater under it, which is better than wearing a tie at least. No tie equals one less option for the inevitable strangulation that’s waiting just down the road.

The light turns green. It takes longer than it should for his foot to hit the gas again. He gives his neck a twist. It’s sticking to the back of his jacket slightly with the light sweat he’s got going. God, this is embarrassing. What the hell happened to him? He imagines himself, twenty years younger, cool, calm, looking out his car window and seeing this sweating nervous wreck of an old fart driving past. He would have just shaken his head and chuckled, not even remotely worried that he’d ever be anything close to that. Well, serves him right doesn’t it? Smug little shit of a gangster he was. And hell is he actually arguing with _himself_ now? It really has been too damn long since he saw Trevor.

Trevor’s waiting right where he usually is, leaning against the wall of the gas-station, glaring venomously at nearly every pedestrian that wanders past. Michael takes in his outfit as he pulls up to the curb. All considered, it could actually be much worse. He’s wearing some ridiculously high denim cut-offs with a bright orange tanktop and his usual boots underneath. Perfect. Maybe the restaurant will make him borrow a suit-jacket for the dining room, really bring the outfit together. 

Michael’s hand hovers above the horn then he thinks better of it. Last chance. He could turn around and head home now. Just him, with his movies and his couch and whatever’s left of that ice-cream. And continue to be the most depressing fucking person on the face of the earth…

Fuck it. Maybe bring strangled with his own intestines is better than that. With a deep breath he pops his door open and gets out, giving a wave. “Hey.”

Trevor’s head snaps in his directly. He starts heading for the car. A delivery-man cut right in front of him and he barks loudly after him, sending the guy sprinting under the weight of the package he’s carrying all the way up the rest of the street.

Trevor slams an arm on the roof of the car, smiling back at him. “Hey.”

Michael’s tongue suddenly doesn’t know what the hell to do with itself. And christ this night is really going to go _so_ well. Fucking Lamar. 

“Sup?” he manages.

Trevor raises an eyebrow. “‘Sup’?”

“Yeah, you know,” Michael clears his throat, cheeks already heating up, and fuck fuck _fuck_ his life. He turns away, reaching for the car door. “How, uh, how’re you?” His clammy hand hit’s the door handle only to slips right off again, throwing all his body weight with it. 

Michael swears, just managing to catch himself again and not hit the pavement like a whale dropped from a 747. He stands up straight, climbing as quickly as he can into the car, and trying to convince his cheeks to stop burning like a fucking forest fire. “God fucking dammit.”

Trevor slides in the passenger seat after him. “You’re fun tonight. Too much bourbon with your prozac suppositories?”

“Fuck off,” Michael snarls, twisting the keys in the ignition.

Michael just manages to pull the car off the curb and back into the Los Santos traffic

“Welllll,” Trevor leers. “Don’t you look shiny.”

And god if he stops blushing like a twelve-year-old once this entire night it’s going to be a miracle. Maybe that’s fine. Maybe if he doesn’t stop blushing once it will just look like a sunburn and save him the trouble of even further humiliation. 

“Yeah, I’m shiny,” he manages to return, “and you look like coyote ugly.”

“Hey now, if some of the girls and I just _happen_ to be the same size, that’s just economical.” 

“Yeah. ’Same size’. Sure.”

Trevor rolls his window down, letting all of the AC fly right out as he drapes his arm over the side. Michael grumbles as he switches the air off. 

“So,” Trevor starts again, planting one booted foot firmly on the dashboard. “I’m fucking starved. Where’d you wanna go? Wanna hold up a hotdog vendor?”

“No, christ, I don’t want to hold up a hot-dog vendor.” Michael glares at the foot on the dashboard, wondering what manner of disturbing substances it’s leaving there. He’ll probably find a perfect acid-eaten imprint in a few hours.

“Oh, come on!” Trevor insist. “It’d be great. We feast on condiments and we can throw hotdogs at passing vegans and—“

“I made reservations,” Michael blurts out.

Trevor turns to him, raising an eyebrow. “Reser- _vations_?”

“Yes, Trevor,” Michael grumbles. “Reservations. That’s when _people_ want to eat something not half cat, so they pick up their phones and _call_ and ask if they can _’reserve’_ a certain time to consume food that was actually cooked in a kitchen, not fished with bare hands out of blood soaked street-food broiler.”

“You really are a passive aggressive turd, you know that.”

“Yeah,” Michael rolls his eyes at his own bullshit, “yeah I fucking know that.”

It doesn’t take long to get to the restaurant. He saved himself a little trouble at least, it’s not the classiest place Los Santos has to offer, but still nice enough to charge hundred-fifty for four courses not including booze. One of those farm-to-table places which really has started to take over. Pretty hilarious really considering he can’t remember ever seeing so much as a chicken with fifty miles of this damn city. But it’s nice all the same: worn wooden boards lining being the bar, old glass milk bottles for table water, vented little fires burning between the outside tables, which are suddenly making him imagine all sorts of creative things Trevor could decided to do with his face and kerosene. Fucking christ.

He pulls up to the valet, climbing out and handing him his keys. Trevor lolls up onto the sidewalk behind him, glaring at everything within eyeshot. “Seriously?”

“Seriously what?”

“ _This_ is where we’re fucking eating?”

“I like it here, alright, fucking sue me.”

“Probably could. Emotional distress. Slander. Emotional distress.”

“You said that one.”

“Oh sorry. Must be hung up on it for some reason.”

Michael heads for the hostess with a grumble. “I really wish you’d stop bringing that up.”

And to his ever lasting fucking shock, Trevor answers, “Yeah. Right, I know. Sorry.”

He turns around, staring at him in disbelief. Trevor just looks right back.

“Can I help you?” the hostess beams behind them.

Michael clears his throat, turning. “Uh, yeah. De Santa. Two.”

He hears Trevor snort behind him. 

“Of course, right this way,” the woman answers, sliding two menus from under the podium and turning towards the patio.

“Great,” Michael forces a smile back.

He follows her. He can _feel_ Trevor following him. Slowly. Too slowly. Like he considering just what the best way is to completely fuck _everything_ about this place right the hell up.

“Here you go,” she chimes, putting the menus down. “Thank you!”

“Thank _you_!” Trevor overemphasizes with a sunny voice that probably isn’t terrifying to anyone else without hearing range.

The girl heads off again, manage to not even give Trevor’s entire _everything_ so much as a second glance. Michael’s got to give her credit for that. Not everyone on the patio is managing quite as well.

Michael sits down with a sigh, instantly grabbing his waiting water.

Trevor’s still standing, still staring, at everything, with a very particular type of expression. 

“Sit the fuck down, T. Please,” Michael says under his breath.

“Mmm, very fucking polite,” Trevor grins, sliding the chair out with his boot and collapsing into it, throwing one arm over the back. He instantly starts frowning at the repurposed milk-jug and christ this was a mistake. This was a giant fucking mistake, what type of parasitic being took over his brain to force him to even consider that this wasn’t a gargantuan, overwhelming, all consuming, apocalyptic mistake. 

“T,” Michael starts, throat already feeling dry again.

“Mm?” Trevor hums. He’s staring at the little fires. Staring very hard at the little fires.

“Could you do something for me?”

“What’s that?” He can’t seem to stop looking at the fires.

“Can we just… have dinner?”

That seems to work. Trevor looks back at him. “‘Have dinner’?”

“Yeah,” Michael tries, idly clenching and unclenching one hand nervously under the table where Trevor can’t fucking see it. “Just dinner. Can we not… set tables on fire, or piss directly into anyone’s face, or throw grenades at the bar, or gut the valet, or fill the water bottles with the blood of the kitchen staff and put them back on the tables?”

“Jeez, well, you’re making it hard with all these fantastic suggestions.”

Michael holds his look. “Please?”

Trevor stares back, eyes narrow, evaluating. Finally he shrugs. “Fuck. Fine. Whatever. But don’t expect me to enjoy it.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Michael mutters into his water. “I don’t.”

A waiter sidles up to the table. He has a wax-curled mustache. Perfect. Fucking perfect.

“Hey, how we doin’? Can I get you anything to start out?”

Trevor looks at the waiter. He looks at Michael. He looks back at the waiter. 

“Mmm, you know not just yet. Thank you though. I think we’re still considering. So many options! Right, Michael?”

Michael stares. The tone is fucking eery. Like something off of the travel network. “Uh. Right.”

“ _By the way_ ,” he continues, teeth gritted under his smile, “love the fucking milk jugs.”

“Right!” the waiter beams. “I mean _everybody_ does ‘antique’ glass, but these are legit. Real deal. The owner got them from one of the first historically organic farms in the state. Good stuff, huh?”

Trevor stares. Just fucking stares. “That’s great. Just fucking fantastic. Tell me? Do you all take turns shoving them up each other’s assholes once the shifts are done or would you rather do that solo?”

“What?”

“We need a minute longer, kid, thanks,” Michael rushes.

The kid blinks at Trevor once before slowly turning away again.

“What the hell did I just say?” Michael hisses, leaning into the table.

Trevor rolls his eyes. “Please. These fucks only perceived whatever the hell fits into their distorted fucking world-view. I could take a shit in the middle of the table and they’d probably just call it Fair Trade Scat Incense for fuck’s sake.”

Michael glares. “You gonna?”

“Well, we’ll fucking see won’t we.”

Michael leans back with a heavy sigh. “Jesus christ, fuck me.”

Trevor narrows his eyes. “What’s your problem?”

“What do you mean ‘what’s my problem’, I just fucking told you my problem?”

“Seriously. What are we doing here, Mikey?”

Michael’s pulse instantly jumps, throat tightening right along with it. He snatches the menu, peering down into it with intense focused avoidance. “What are you talking about ‘here’?”

“ _Here_ , here, fucking hell I can practically smell the bullshit seeping out of this place.”

“I said. I like it here.”

“Yeah. Of course. Of course you’d fucking like it here,” Trevor snorts. “With the ironically fancy damn barn-board they scraped the manure off of, and our Master of Ceremonies fucking waiter—“

“Speaking on which,” Michael grasps, as the waiter heads back towards them and hell he really is grasping at straws here. “Hey, kid—“

The waiter bobs back over. Michael can’t help but notice he stands a little further from Trevor this time. 

“Can I get a wine list?” Michael asks, shoving ahead. “For us. For dinner?”

Trevor’s voice is nothing but acid. “A _wine list_?”

“Yes. Okay. I want a wine list. You have wine. With food. Actual fucking food. Dinner. Okay?”

“Um,” the waiter manages.

“Dinner, _wine list_ , fucking hell,” Trevor snorts sarcastically, “what the hell is this, a fucking date?” 

“ _Yes!_ Alright!”

Fuck. 

Fuck, fuck, fuckfuck _fuck_.

Trevor stares back at him. His face has gone empty. Completely fucking empty. “The fuck did you say?”

Michael swallows thickly. It doesn’t make the feeling of damn sandpaper in his throat any better. 

“It’s a date,” he croaks. “It’s supposed to be a fucking date. Okay?”

Silence.

Very carefully, the waiter slides a typewritten piece of paper down between them. He draws his hand back like he’s been handling unstable dynamite and hurries _very_ quickly away from the table.

Trevor hasn’t flinched. Michael’s starting to wonder if he forget how to blink, how to breath, how to anything.

“So,” Michael manages, clearing his throat roughly.

Trevor stares.

“You gonna bust my face with that milk jug? There’s these little cutesy fucking fires here. Lots of potential.”

Trevor continues to stare.

Michael frowns. “Trev?”

Trevor looks down at the table, eyes falling all to readily on the neat piece of paper laid out to the right of his place-setting. “Do you know what you’re going to get?”

Now it’s Michael’s turn to stare. “What?”

Trevor’s eyes don’t leave the menu. His hands are knitted between his knees, posture stiff and narrow. “What’s good?”

Michael blinks. He looks down at his own menu. “Uh, steak’s good.”

“Good.”

Michael looks back at him. He doesn’t meet his eye. “Yeah… good.”

Trevor doesn’t say more than ten words for the rest of the entire damn meal. 

Michael eats, slowly, warily, glancing at him every once in a while to see if whatever obviously brewing under those freakishly still limbs going to snap free and eat him alive. But nothing. Not one fucking thing. Trevor’s expression doesn’t budge. It’s hollow, empty, like someone popped the drain out of a pool and everything swirled right out. He doesn’t even seem to notice the waiter when he takes Michael’s order for two steaks and a bottle of Zinfandel, not even when the kid’s phone goes off with a country song on the ringtone, which is hip enough to tweak even Michael’s nerves.

He eats at least. Silently. Michael tries to start a conversation a few times, something, anything, but when he just gets quiet one word answers or grunts back he decides that it’s probably not worth the effort.

Great. Well, this went better than he thought, didn’t it? He managed to just skip over every other possible romantic stage and drop them right into the status of the married couple who just stares at their food when the eat out while everyone else feels sorry for them and promises themselves they’ll never get there.

Michael pays the bill without saying a thing. Trevor still has hardly moved. That’s about when it starts to really grate. 

He follows Michael out of the restaurant with the same dead silence. They wait for the valet, side-by-side. Nothing. The valet tosses Michael the keys. He intentionally misses them. They clatter to the pavement by Trevor’s feet. Trevor doesn’t move. The valet scoops them up again instantly, handing them to Michael directly this time as Michael grumbles out a thank you and climbs in. The passenger side door shuts. Michael risks glancing over. Trevor’s brow is furrowed, as if he’s concentrating on something very, _very_ seriously. And fuck with the irritation that’s starting to broil under his skin Michael probably has a very similar fucking expression on his face.

He drives faster than he should, taking corners harder than he needs to, seeing if he can at least jolt him out of that frozen state that way. Nothing. Fucking nothing. 

Finally, he squeals to a stop in front of the gas station. 

Trevor reaches for the door. “Night.”

Michael spins. “ _‘Night’_?!” 

But Trevor’s already out of the car, swinging the door shut behind him.

Michael turns back to the wheel, glaring at the leather hard enough to probably ignite it. He doesn’t loosen his knuckles once the whole drive home. He almost rams the gates before they slide the rest of the way open. No other cars. Thank god. He doesn’t even fucking park properly, leaving the damn car half way on the lawn and swinging the door shut hard behind him. He charges up the steps, ripping open the stained glass and letting it slam with a shudder as he heads full speed for the kitchen. He tears open the freezer, grabbing that fucking ice-cream without a moment’s pause. He’s going to demolish it. He’s going to eat every fucking single last bite of the damn stuff, and then he’s going to drink the rest of that bourbon, and then he’s going to chuck every single damn little statue in this house he always hated out into a pile in the backyard and unload three clips right into the fuckers. 

He glares around the kitchen. Where the hell are the fucking spoons? He tears open the nearest drawer. Nothing. The cleaner must have moved them. Another. Still nothing. It’s his house. It’s his fucking house and he doesn’t know where the damn spoons are?

He let’s out a sudden roar and chucks the entire ice-cream container right through the glass of the french doors. 

The shatter crashes through the kitchen with shocking finality. Michael stares. After a moment, a pane of glass falls and another quaint smash. The ice-cream rolls slowly over the brickwork until it plops into the pool.

He hears something.

Michael turns, listening intently. It’s distant, but getting closer. It sounds a lot like someone driving very hard and very badly up his driveway…

“Shit.” His brain instantly pushes him to reach for a gun, a fucking knife, _anything_. He makes himself ignore the instinct. He takes one deep breath.

The front door slams open.

“WHAT THE _FUCK_?!” Trevor’s voice roars.

As far as fight or flight moments go, Trevor Philips furiously smashing into your house screaming bloody murder is pretty high up there on the list. Every single damn impulse he has screams at him to plunge right through that broken door and not slow down for one damn second. But he makes himself shove that aside, hold his ground. He gives his neck a quick shake and gets ready.

Trevor rolls into the kitchen like a fucking hurricane. “WHAT. THE. _FUCK_?!”

“Yeah. I heard.” 

“This is fucking amazing, it really is!” Trevor snarls, barreling ahead full speed, pacing across the kitchen floor frantically, hands grasping open and shut against the air, posture hunched over like some animal ready to lunge out and sink it’s teeth right into the nearest neck. “You just keep topping yourself don’t you!”

“Slow down, T,” he tries. “What’re you talking about?”

“Don’t, ’T’ me you fucking asshole!” Trevor let’s out a raspy bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “Like you don’t know _exactly_ what I’m fucking talking about, like you don’t always know _exactly_ what _you’re_ fucking talking about!”

“I don’t! I’m serious.”

“ _I’M_ FUCKING SERIOUS!”

“Okay,” Michael tries, holding up both hands, doing his best to keep his voice level. “That’s okay.”

“It’s not fucking _okay_! Nothing about this is fucking _’okay’_! And—“ Trevor’s wild gaze falters. “What the fuck happened to your door?!”

“I… threw some ice-cream at it.”

Trevor glares at the door. Something about that seems to be grounding him. Destruction maybe. Familiar footing. 

When he turns back to him his voice is lower. That somehow makes it even more terrifying. “What the fuck was that back there?”

Michael swallows. “I said.”

“No. You _didn’t_ fucking say.”

God. It’s too late now, isn’t it? He’s jumped into the shit. The best he can do is try not to drown.

“I wanted to go out. You and me.”

“You and me is _not_ a fucking date!” Trevor hisses.

“I wanted it to be,” Michael swallows, “want it to be. Alright?”

Trevor glares at him like Michael’s face is succumbing to some form of leprosy right in front of his eyes. “What the fuck kind of bullshit is that?”

“No bullshit,” Michael says holding his stare firmly.

“You think this is fucking funny. You think I’d buy that - you’d get a good fucking laugh out of that wouldn’t you? What’d you think, I’d be what? Fucking _grateful_? Well _too fucking bad_ jackass!”

“Hey!” Michael suddenly snarls. “ _Fuck you_! It’s not a fucking joke! Not to me! I’m fucking trying here Trevor, I’m _really_ fucking trying!”

“ _Trying what_?!”

“TO TELL YOU I FUCKING LOVE YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”

Trevor stares.

Well. 

All thing considered, that probably went about as well as he might have expected.

Michael let’s out one long, loud groan. He collapses his head into both hands on the countertop. 

After a moment, he feels Trevor take a step closer.

Behind them, there’s the sound of the door opening. 

“Dad?”

Michael rips his head off the table. “Trace?”

“Dad what the _hell_?” Tracey’s voice carries from the entry-way, getting ever closer. “Did you guys drive here _drunk_ or _blind_? What’s with that parking? Hey uncle, T!”

Michael looks at Trevor. Trevor looks at Tracey. He clears his throat, and, christ, is _he_ blushing?

“Hey, sweetie,” Trevor manages, rubbing one hand against the back of his neck.

Tracey stops short, eyeing the door. “Um. Dad?”

“Yeah, that was, uh, an accident.”

Tracey eyes him suspiciously.

Michael swallows. “I, uh… threw some ice-cream.”

“… Accidentally?”

“Yeah. Right.”

“Well,” Tracey shrugs, “at least your dieting. I like that top uncle, T!”

“Thanks,” Trevor answers roughly. “I’m gonna go.”

“Oh no!” Tracy says suddenly. “Don’t go! Hang out. With us! Right, Dad?”

Michael meets Trevor’s eye. “Uh, yeah, right.”

“Yeah!” Tracey chimes. “We can watch a movie or something,”

“Since when do you want to watch movies with _me_? Or, hell, ‘hang out’?” Michael can’t help asking.

“Since I have absolutely nothing better to do apparently.” Tracey rolls her eyes. “Please stay uncle, T - promise you’ll stay!”

Michael looks back at him, trying not to look too damn desperate. “Yeah man. Stick around.”

Trevor holds his look for a moment. There’s something funny going on under his eyes, like there’s something trapped there he won’t let go of but wants to all the same. Finally, he turns to Tracey with a worn lopsided smile. “Yeah. I’ll stick around.”

“Yay!” Tracey cheer.

“If…” Trevor continues.

“If?” she asks.

“ _If_ your fat-ass dad promises we can do something that’s actually _fun_ the next time we hang out.”

Tracey snorts. “Sorry. Can’t do. He’s never fun.”

“Yeah. Guess not,” Trevor grins.

“Okay, come on, come on!” Tracey hurries towards the living room. “I get to pick. Okay? No complaints.”

Michael follows her towards the other room. Trevor steps up the few steps next to him.

“Next time, huh?” Michael asks with half a smile.

“Don’t fucking push it.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Wake up.”

Michael shuts his eyes tighter. It’s snowing outside. The motel room smells like dust and old carpets. He doesn’t have to wake up. Not yet. It’s snowing. The job will have to wait another day.

“Hey. Wake up.”

He let’s out a protesting groan. They can shut up who ever they are. He doesn’t have to wake up. The roads won’t be right for it today, there’s plenty of time to sleep.

Someone’s rolling over in the motel bed next to him, lifting up on two bony young elbows.

_”WAKE UP!”_ Trevor screams in his face.

Michael opens his eyes. Trevor blinks back at him.

He just manages not to scream bloody murder and throw himself off of the bed in sheer terror. All things considered, the very minimal scream of surprise is actually a pretty tame response.

“Christ, dramatic much?” Trevor says.

“WHAT THE FUCK, TREVOR?!” Michael yells right back.

“ _Well_ you weren’t waking up? What the hell else am I suppose to do?”

“DON’T FUCKING WAKE ME UP!”

“Oh please, who the fuck are you, the queen?”

“What the fuck does that even mean? People wake the queen up for fuck’s sake!”

“So you’re _better_ than the queen now? Christ Mikey, just keep working on that ego, you’ll reach greek god status any day now.”

Michael takes a deep breath, actually sitting up properly in the bed. He runs a heavy hand down his face. Trevor stands next to it impatiently. He’s wearing another one of those flannels. This one’s a shade of purple so damn noisy it’s burning his retinas.

“What are you doing here? I thought you left after that damn movie.”

“ _Medically Blonde_ ,” Trevor corrects, “and if you managed to keep your damn eyes open for the whole thing you might have learned an important message about the solidarity of female bonds in the face of patriarchal systems.”

“Lucky fucking me.”

“Anyways,” Trevor continues. “I did leave. After. And now I’m back. Get up.”

“What’s wrong with you? Christ, what time is it even?” Michael groans.

“A about fucking time to get out of bed,” Trevor grumbles, taking out his energy by crossing the room and ripping the curtains back, kicking the door open so all the light and heat and city sound pours right in.

“ _Why_ am I getting out of bed?” Michael squints.

“Cause,” Trevor turns suddenly, staring at him with sharp narrow eyes. “You said we could do something _fun_. Unless that was bullshit too? Wouldn’t be surprised. You’re in the habit.”

Michael stares back. “Uh. No. Not bullshit.”

“Great. So get the fuck up. I’ve got plans.”

That sentence really shouldn’t feel as ominous as it does. “Plans?”

“Should I throw a bucket of water on you or what, huh?”

“Do these plans involve, I don’t know… mass murder?”

Trevor heads for the door. “Get the fuck up and see for yourself.” The door slams behind him.

Michael stares at the wall across from the bed. Well. He fucking asked for it.

It doesn’t take him long to make it downstairs. The front door’s open and outside someone’s honking their horn. Michael sighs as he heads out, letting the door shut behind him. Trevor’s waiting impatiently in his truck, pulled nice and close to the door. Michael’s sedan is still half way on the lawn. Should probably do something about that. Trevor honks again. Fuck it. Later then. 

Michael climbs into the passenger side of the truck, feeling an interesting mix of gut-clenching anxiety and mild excitement in between the lingering exhaustion. “Alright, so let’s go.”

Trevor gives him a look before rolling his eyes. “Exactly how many pairs of cargo shorts do you fucking own?”

“Hey, it’s hot out, the fuck do you want?”

“Nothin’,” Trevor rips the truck backwards, knocking down a few plants on the way. “You know I think they’re shooting Youth Chasers monthly two blocks over, you could just make the casting call.”

“Fuck you. Anyways, I didn’t even dress like this when I was younger.”

“Yeah,” Trevor turns the truck back out onto the road again. “I remember.” 

Michael leans back in the worn leather seat as the truck picks up speed against the traffic. The sun’s beating down on the road - maybe it isn’t as early as he’d thought. He adjusts his sunglasses on his nose. Well. He might as well try. “You seem, uh, calmer.”

“Couple of late-night romantic comedies will do that to a guy.”

“Yeah, Tracey has pretty specific tastes there.”

“Least I didn’t complain the whole damn time.”

“I did not fucking complain.”

“ _Eyerolling_ , Michael, though non-verbal, counts as a fucking complaint.”

“Bullshit.”

“It represents a _’derisive attitude’_. And that’s no damn fun for anyone.”

“Yeah well maybe I have a genetically derisive attitude, alright?”

Trevor gives half a grumble in reply.

There’s a red-light up ahead. Trevor drags the truck right around all the cars waiting, diving smoothly into the oncoming traffic to head back into the right lane as horns and a few sounds of crunching metal echo behind them.

“So… where’re we going anyways?” Michael asks peering out, trying to get a sense of the direction. 

“You tell me,” Trevor says.

“Yeah. That’s why I asked. Because I obviously know exactly where the hell we’re going.”

“We’re going somewhere. To do something.”

“Great. Real descriptive. Very reassuring.”

Trevor’s quiet for a long moment, then, finally, “Does that make this another whatever the hell you said.”

Michael squints. “Another what? What’d I say?”

“You know, another…”

Michael glares back. “Another no I don’t fucking know? What?”

Trevor grimaces. “Another _’date’_ or whatever bullshit you were spewing last night?”

Michael groans letting his head fall back against the headrest. “Bullshit. Right. Well hey, at least I know how you fucking feel about it. Honestly I’m still considering myself lucky you didn’t make me into fucking sausage after massacring the whole damn place.”

“Right,” Trevor suddenly snaps, “I see, so I’m not allowed you call you on _your_ bullshit, but you’re allowed to throw _accusations_ at me whenever the hell you feel like it?”

“It _wasn’t_ bullshit? Alright. I’m fucking sick of you saying that.”

“It _was_ bullshit,” Trevor emphasizes. “What the hell was with that place and the fucking people and _christ_ , that’s not… that’s not what _we_ do, right? That’s what _other_ people do.”

“Yeah. People who fucking date. We’ve been through this, christ T, are you really going to push my buttons until I scream humiliating shit in your face again?”

“Humiliating. Right. Nice.”

“Fuck me, christ,” Michael groans, “I didn’t mean… I tried. Okay. I thought… shit it’s fucking stupid. I thought you’d realize it was a date, okay?”

“Yeah well, since I’ve never actually _been_ on a date, _excuse me_ for not recognizing the fucking markers.”

Michael blinks. “You’ve… you’ve never been _on a date_? What the hell does that mean?”

“It means: I’ve never been on a fucking date.”

“… Seriously?”

“ _Yes_ seriously. Alright? Happy?”

“Nah, nah,” Michael shakes his head, “I’ve _seen you_ , with girls, hell with guys - dozens of times. Hundreds of time!”

“ _Fucking_ ,” Trevor enunciates, “is not _dating_.”

Michael stares back at the road. “Yeah… right. Shit. I’m sorry.”

“What for? If last night was an example, seems like a fucking blessing I’ve ‘missed out’ on it so far.”

“Fine,” Michael snaps, “so you fucking hated it. I get it. Know what? Fuck you. So it wasn’t a fucking date. I take it back. Just me being a goddamn moron as usual, alright?”

He leans back hard in the passenger seat, crossing his arms tight over his chest and glaring at the oncoming traffic through the chipper tint of his sunglasses. Great start to the day. Fucking perfect. Exactly what he was after.

Trevor’s hands seem tighter on the steering wheel than they should be. “You. Right,” Trevor growls. “You’re the moron. It’s always about you, isn’t it? Always on your damn terms.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s all you. _Your_ fucking feelings. Your fucking _confessions_. Your fucking _’date’_ or whatever the fuck that was. Did you even think about what I would _want_ to do? Huh? Did that fucking cross your mind?”

Michael frowns. He can feel the familiar sense of guilt starting to seep in around the rage. He tightens his crossed arms to fend it off. “Oh yeah, and that would have made this better? You wouldn’t still be screaming ‘bullshit’ at me?”

“Maybe.”

“ _Maybe?_ ”

Trevor stares hard at the road. “Maybe we can find out.”

Michael looks back at him. Trevor keeps his eyes firm on the traffic. 

“What?” Michael asks. “Like… try it again? Take fucking two?”

Trevor hardly budges. It doesn’t seem like he can manage to look back at him. “Whatever. Sure. Maybe. I guess. If you wanted. Doesn’t fucking matter anyways.”

God. Did he really think this was going to be easy? Anything with Trevor was like pulling goddamn teeth, that is if the teeth were secured by fucking platinum, and sitting in the mouth of some prehistoric crocodile. How the hell did he think that if everything else was hard this going to be any different? And hell, all he can really do now is brace his foot on the jaws and just keep tugging. 

“Yeah,” Michael swallows. “I’ll take that. Sure. Take two.”

“Good. Fine,” Trevor snaps.

“Fine.” Michael leans back. After a minute he knits his hands behind his head. “So it’s up to you, okay? Whatever you want to do today, we’ll do it…”

“That’s right.”

“…As if that wasn’t exactly what we were gonna do anyways.”

“Great fucking start.”

Michael grins. “Ah, bite me.”

Trevor snorts back. Michael let’s himself crack a glance at him under his sunglasses. He can’t be positive from this angle but he thinks he might be smiling. 

 

After the first hour, he decides it’s probably best to stop trying to guess or ask where they’re heading. It’s a decent drive, at first winding around the coastline then cutting back through the desert and finally up into the hills. Michael lets himself lean back and simply watch the scenery float past. Funny. He never really took much time before to look scenery. It almost irritated him if he’s being honest. He always felt like he was supposed to be getting something from it that he wasn’t, that idiots or old men could look at a view and get this deep sense of solace and contentment and since he didn’t they could fuck off. And look at this, here he is now, probably qualifying as both an idiot _and_ an old man, perfectly happy to stare out a window like a dog for hours on end, just taking in whatever flashes past. 

The company helps too. It’s weird, but now that he’s paying attention simple shit seems so much more, hell just _good_ , when you’ve got someone who really knows you right along for the ride. It kind feels like he doesn’t even have to think, or try, or any of the shit he’s used to doing too damn much, he can just kinda… be. He gazes out at the tower pines. Maybe that’s how trees feel all the time. Just being. And shit he really has gone right off the deep end hasn’t he?

The truck takes a sudden sharp turn onto a barely there dirt road and Michael jolts back to himself in the passenger seat.

“Yo, easy!”

“ _’Yo, easy,’_ ” Trevor mocks back in a high-pitched voice.

The truck manages to keep on two wheels over a few more rough corners and boulder-laden stretches before finally popping out of the tree cover, and suddenly there’s quite a bit of view to stare at.

“Holy shit,” Michael swears.

“Not bad, huh?” Trevor grins.

“Holy _shit_!”

“Well aren’t you eloquent today.”

Michael narrows his eyes at the opposite hillside. “What the fuck is— are those choppers? And _cruisers_?”

“What? Oh yeah. A couple.”

“A fucking _dozen_! At least!”

“Yeah. A couple.”

The truck comes to a stop at the top of the hill, or rather at the top of the damn mountain. Michael pops open his door, stumbling out to take a better look while Trevor moves around the back. 

They’re up high. Higher than he realized. Looking off to the south-west he can even see Los Santos glimmering against the edge of the ocean. Pine trees line the hills but up here, where they are, there’s a clearing at the top of the knoll which makes the view fantastic and easy enough to see across the way to another knoll hundreds of meters off. On that knoll there’s an erratic shiny line of vehicles that this far away look like little toys someone chucked down on a hillside. He can see police cruisers, helicopters, an ambulance, a fucking _firetruck_.

“How,” Michael starts dumbly, “how the hell did you—?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Made the most of it.”

“Yeah. No shit.”

Trevor turns back around the front of the truck. Michael glances over. “Holy shit.”

“Liking that one today, huh?”

“How are you… standing?”

Trevor grins back. He’s _covered_ in guns. _Big_ fucking guns.

“Eh,” Trevor shrugs, “not as heavy than it looks.” He eases them off one at a time onto the hood of the truck.

Michael picks up the closest. It feels solid and almost ridiculously good fitting into his hands. He’s probably grinning like an idiot. And even worse, he doesn’t even care.

Trevor clanks the last gun on the pile and turns back towards the truck, leaning over the passenger side to grab a jingly cardboard box that he lets fall on the sparse mountain grass between them. He grabs a bottle of _very_ nice looking whiskey off the top, pulls the stopper out with his teeth and takes a good long gulp. 

“Us. Drunk on a mountain. With giant fucking guns. This is your great idea?” Michael stares as Trevor wipes his mouth against the sleeve of that obnoxious flannel. 

“Don’t be fucking baby,” Trevor sneers, snatching a selection off the top of the pile. “Anyways, you know only pistols and shotguns are _really_ dangerous when you’re drunk.”

“Oh yeah, that’s what they put on the box, right? ‘Grenade Launcher - use moderately with alcohol’.”

Trevor raises an eyebrow at him, smirking like he knows exactly what’s going on in his head. He wiggles the bottle. “Want some?”

Michael narrows his eyes. “Maybe.”

Trevor shoves the bottle into his hand, adjusting the gun under his arm. “Alright! So. Rules.”

“Rules?”

“ _Rules_ , Michael, _control_ the fun.”

Michael smiles into the whiskey. It’s strong as hell and he can practically see the hedge fund managers sobbing at the thought of it going to waste on fucks like them.

Trevor lifts his gun, snuggling the base into the meat of his shoulder and adjusting his stance as easy as breathing. “Ten points for every boom. And when I say boom I mean fucking _boom_. Fire doesn’t count.”

“Big ones should be more,” Michael notes, turning to evaluate the options. 

“Mmm, fine fine, firetruck can be fifteen.”

“Twenty.”

“Sure. Fucking twenty.”

Michael turns back just as Trevor fires. He chucks his hands over his ears half a second too late and the rocket peels across the distance between the hills, a neat while trail of smoke slashing across the blue sky. It tears just in front of the firetruck, shattering into the chopper behind with an immensely satisfying explosion.

“Ten,” Trevor shrugs.

Michael lifts his own weapon. The weight feel’s just right against the muscle of his hands. He slips one eye shut, one foot back, and squeezes the trigger.

Across the canyon the front of the firetruck bursts into a flaming wreck.

Michael lowers the gun with a smug expression. “Twenty.”

 

The sun’s been down for hours before he finally decides he might be too drunk to keep shooting high-powered rifles at a wrecked hillside. 

Up above, the moon is bright enough to see the hills on all sides, clean, clear white light bouncing off of shattered glass that glitters amongst the embers still glowing on the crisp smoldering turf.

Trevor gives the empty liquor bottle a good chuck. “FOUR!”

Michael just manages to make the shot, destroying the bottle with a satisfying glassy burst. 

“Alright, alright,” he mutters, “s’ enough. Too drunk.”

Trevor snorts. “Just cause you’re loosin’—“

“Hey - I’ve got _double_ your points. Call that loosin’?”

“ _Sore_ loosing,” Trevor grumbles. He kicks at the case as his feet, clumsily leaning the gun against the truck again where most of the guns are by now. “Gotta be the best of every _thing_ huh?”

“No, not _everything_ … Something’s? Absolutely,” Michael leans back onto the hood of the truck. The stars blink back at him. Nice to see them. In the city it’s always too bright to make them out.

Trevor’s rummaging around in the box at their feet. Sounds like he’s grabbing a beer. 

“Hey,” Michael starts, gazing up at the sky. “Lemme ask you somethin’…”

“Mm?” Trevor hums around the beer.

“Did you know, that everyone, _every-one_ thought we were, sort of, at least kind of… ‘together’?”

“You mean everyone thought we were _fucking_? Yeah no shit.”

“Jesus Christ,” Michael laughs aloud, surprising himself.

“What? You didn’t get that?”

“No,” Michael groans. “No I didn’t ‘get that’.”

“Hell, shit-stain Devin and Steve-cousin-fucker-Haines had a whole damn bet going. _Which_ Devin would have won by the way _if_ there was anything to bet about.”

“God,” Michael uncovers his eyes with another laugh. The stars are still there. “I’m fucking clueless, aren’t I?”

Trevor makes a short sound that is more than likely agreement. Michael can feel him leaning back against the hood next to him. He wonders his far away he is. If he nudged his knee over would he touch him or not? He feels far away somehow, even still.

“‘M sorry,” Michael mumbles.

Trevor’s quiet for a moment. “Bout what?”

“That this took me so long.” 

Michael stares up at the stars. The stars stare back. Trevor doesn’t answer.

There’s so many of them up there, god, when did he forget there were so damn many of them? It had been such a constant part of his life, their lives, back then: the cold and the stars spread thick and sharp across that big fat northern sky. 

“Hey,” Michael rolls his head with a cock-eyed smile. He can’t see Trevor’s face from this angle, just the stern line of his shoulders as he looks out across the hills. “Better late than never, huh?” Michael nudges at him with his knee. Trevor flinches away. His limbs feel like fucking stone. 

His voice sounds strained when he finally opens his mouth. “What the hell is this?”

Michael rolls his eyes. He’s too drunk to deal with him being even more of an exceptional pain in the ass. “This was _fun_. Hell, you were fucking right. Much more fun than my lame shit.”

“ _This_ ,” Trevor pronounces. His eyes are still hard on the horizon. “What’s—” He sighs suddenly with a grating growl, twisting his hands in his lap. “So what? This is like… a _thing_ now?”

“‘A thing’?” Michael repeats.

“Yeah. A fucking _thing_.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t fucking know, alright? I’ve never… whatever the fuck it means! Calling and texting and dinner and fucking holidays and just, whatever the hell.”

“What? You mean, are we… dating?”

“Right. A thing. Dating. Whatever.”

Michael props himself up on his elbows. “Do you, uh, want to be?”

“ _Do you_?” Trevor snaps back without turning, like he’s exactly six and a half fucking years old.

Michael groans. “Look, it doesn’t have to be _’a thing’_ , alright just… well, a thing.” Trevor snorts out half a laugh and Michael can’t help joining in. “Fuck I’m too drunk for this type of shit man.”

“What the hell happened to you?” Trevor snaps suddenly. “I mean did you get hit by a fucking bus or—“

“Abducted by aliens?”

“Sucked off by the Dalai Lama?”

Michael chuckles into the collar of his shirt. “Yeah that’s it.”

“Seriously…” Trevor asks, voice oddly quiet. 

“Seriously,” Michael starts. He looks out over the hills. Los Santos is sparkling against the coastline, like fireflies in a jar sitting on a kid’s bedside table. “I just… fuck, I opened my eyes and realized that somewhere between wanting to shoot you in the face and watch you look at the damn ocean like everything’s going to be okay, and all the other mountains of shit, there’s this.”

“This?”

“You. And me. And, yeah. This.”

“The thing?”

Michael can’t help smiling. “Yeah, T. The thing.”

“And you,” Trevor’s voice trails off for a moment. Michael glances over. He’s still looking out over the hills. Exactly as he was. “You want that?”

Michael stares at the line of his neck, where it slopes down into his shoulders and the curve of his arms resting in his lap. He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”

Trevor says nothing. Hell, if he didn’t know better he’d think he’d turned to fucking stone.

“Do uh,” Michael tries to keep his voice even. “Do you?”

Trevor takes another swig of his beer. His voice is lower, uneven. “That’s not the fucking point.”

“What the hell does that mean? Of course that’s the point—”

“It _means_ ,” Trevor snaps suddenly, “I don’t get what I fucking want. Alright? That’s not how it works.”

Michael stares at the line of his shoulders, frown suddenly deeper than it has been. “How what works?”

“How _I_ work. How my entire fucking existence works. Haven’t you fucking noticed yet? Anything that makes _me_ happy, not artificial dopamine injection happy, _actually_ fucking honestly damn happy, develops a pretty critical fucking shelf-life.”

Michael frowns. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Trevor’s shoulders tense even more and suddenly he feels further away than ever. “It’s not you, alright. Fuck, it’s not _just_ you. It’s everyone. I’m the constant. I’m the undeniable factor. Like poison in the fucking well.”

Michael’s brow furrows. He knows there’s a hundred damn things he should be saying so why the hell can’t be find a single one of them?

“Hell maybe…” Trevor’s voice trails, “maybe if I let myself get anymore damn happy, the universe will remember I’m fucking made to be alone.”

Michael stares over his shoulder. In the distance the city is blinking back at him, silvery and from this far away, so still. 

“Bullshit,” Michael says.

That get’s his attention. 

Trevor turns, glaring at him. “ _Excuse_ me?”

Michael glares right back. “That’s bullshit. You’re not the universe’s fucking pissing pot, alright, so stop acting like it.”

Trevor’s anger flares. “So what, I’m just your fucking pissing pot?”

“You’re _no one’s_ , alright. Hell, except maybe your own. God Trevor, so what? You think there a damn fucking magical curse that makes you some fairytale bullshit troll destined to wander the earth alone forever!?” 

“A _troll_?” Trevor pronounces.

“For fuck’s sake, T,” Michael shoves on, “that’s as bad as the crap I’ve been telling myself for the past ten years. Look,” he sits up straighter, staring right back at him. “You’re a pain in the ass, but people leave you because _they_ are the shits, alright. Trust me. I have some fucking experience in that department.”

Something flickers behind Trevor’s eyes and Michael thinks it might almost be a smile. Not quite. Almost.

“ _And_ ,” Michael rolls right on, chasing after it, “ _this_ , the _thing_ , is not just your fucking call by the way. It’s mine too. So, if I say I’m not going anywhere and I want to go to damn uppity restaurants once in a while, or sit on the hood of a car and drink beer with big fucking guns, or yell every damn emotionally crippling revelation I have right in your face whenever I want because we’re _A Thing_ , then I’m going to fucking do it! And any imaginary Trevor-Philips-alone-forever plans the Universe most definitely does not have can take a fucking hike.” He leans back hard against the roof again, glaring up at the stars. “Alright?”

Trevor turns back to the horizon, grip tight on his beer. He stares for a long while. “Fine.” 

Michael blinks. “Fine?”

“Yes. Fucking fine. So, we’re ‘a thing’, or whatever.”

Michael risks half a smile. “Dating?”

“Sure. Fine. Dating.” Trevor sniffs, shifting his shoulders uneasily. “If you fucking say so.”

Michael narrows his eyes, smile still hanging around his lips. “Yeah. That’s right. I fucking say so.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Silence falls back around them almost comfortably. After a moment Michael leans forward with a short groan, reaching down into the box and pulling out a beer. He sits back up, cracking it open and taking a deep sip.

“So,” Trevor starts, “are we going to start fucking now or what?”

Michael chokes on the beer, foam spewing up his nose. 

Trevor’s smirking next to him with an all too contented air, as if he knew exactly what that fucking sentence would elicit.

“Fucking hell,” Michael swears, wiping off his face, “out of fucking left field.”

“Not really.”

“Yeah,” Michael admits. “Guess not. Uh, that’s not, honestly… I haven’t even thought about that…”

“Oh yeah?”

“No, I just—” Michael manages to wrangle the heat in his cheeks back a few degrees. “I like you, alright? I like spending time with you. I like the idea of… fuck, I like the idea of just, hell, _being_ with you, alright? The other… _stuff_ , that doesn’t have to come into it.”

“Mmm,” Trevor hums, he takes another long drag off his beer.

Michael glances over. “Does it?”

Trevor shrugs. “Doesn’t have to.”

“Right. Okay then.”

Trevor takes another sip, considering the distant flickering lights of the city. “Can I still fuck something?”

“What?” Michael snaps, and hell there’s the fucking blush again.

“Well,” Trevor continues, “I _like_ fucking things. You might have noticed. If I’m not fucking you I’d like to be fucking something.”

“Christ, yes hell, okay, whatever you want. Fuck whatever you want,” Michael hurries, trying to drink the damn blush away before it completely takes over his head.

“Alright,” Trevor notes. “But we’re… ‘dating’?”

“Yes.”

“‘Open relationship’?”

“Sure,” Michael grumbles, “whatever.”

“Guess that’s what you’re _used_ to, huh?”

Michael ignores him, suddenly there’s something that feels almost angry flickering under his chest. He pushes it away firmly, leaning back hard on the hood of the truck.

“Did you ever _want_ to?” Trevor starts again, idly. “You know… With me?”

“Nah,” Michael lies instantly and way, _way_ faster than he’s ready for. He’s quiet for a moment. “… Did you?”

“ _Nah_ ,” Trevor answers back, mocking his exact damn tone, and hell he asked for it didn’t he. His fault. Again. Fucking always.

Michael sighs, stretching an arm up behind his head. The booze wafts around comfortably in his blood. It’s helping. Even if it isn’t by much. He nudges his knee closer to Trevor’s side but he still doesn’t reach him.

“Know what?” Michael asks.

Trevor mumbles some acknowledgement. His shoulders are still tight, posture stiff under the moonlight. 

Michael gazes up at the stars. “I really, really _like_ big guns.”

Trevor snorts. Michael can see him start to smile. “Yeah. No shit.”

“I think, maybe, I pretend I don’t. Like I’m too _cool_ for that shit, not looking back at the explosion or whatever. But I really, really just like shooting big fucking guns.”

Trevor lifts his beer back to his lips. “What else do you like?”

Michael hums. “I like… crashing cars. I like smacking people who are asking for it. Smacking them fucking _hard_. And I like riding motorcycles too fast, and blowing up buildings, and that taste in your mouth when bullets start flying, and I like that look you get.”

“What look?” Trevor asks.

“The look like you like me liking all of that. Too much. More than I fucking should. I like that.”

Trevor doesn’t say anything. He takes another long sip. After a minute he his hand down on the hood of the truck between them. It’s still for a moment, then he moves it, just a few inches, so he’s just touching the side of Michael’s leg and suddenly it’s like the entire damn universe has shuttered off behind his eyes and all that’s left is that. Michael goes still without meaning to. 

Trevor’s hand is shaking. 

It’s shaking hard enough for Michael easily feel it, or maybe he’s just feeling everything more than usual, but Trevor must feel it too because he tugs his hand away suddenly, swearing under his breath.

Something tightens hard in Michael’s throat and before he realizes it he’s grabbing at the back of his shirt, tugging him backwards. “Shit. C’mer.”

And he does, awkwardly, stiffly, but Michael ignores that. He adjusts, pulling Trevor under his arm, laying back again against the hood of the truck. He tries to swallow the sudden roughness at the back of his throat, wrapping his arm tighter around his bony shoulders, tugging him right into his side while he still has the guts.

It takes a minute. Trevor’s shoulders feel like stone under Michael’s arm, body nothing but rigid sharp edges. But Michael doesn’t let go, and finally, Trevor exhales. 

It’s a long breath, half an inaudible sigh, half something else, and Michael feels Trevor’s whole body shift under the feeling of that release. His muscles relax, easing back into Michael, head letting it’s weight fall back onto on his shoulder. It feels like he hasn’t taken a proper breath for a long time. Years. Fucking decades. And Michael breathes too, letting his own grip loosen more naturally. 

He hears Trevor take another long inhale. He thinks he might have closed his eyes, even if just for a moment. He’s still shaking, but it’s just barely a tremor. Hell, close like this it’s hard to tell. Maybe Michael’s the one shaking. His heart’s beating hard enough for it.

It’s not _cuddling_ a voice in his head tells himself distantly. Just a hug. With one arm. Lying down. Totally normal.

But does feel good doesn’t it. More than good. Right. Just... right. 

Michael let’s his hand trace Trevor’s arm slowly but firmly, back and forth. Trevor’s head feels heavier, more comfortable against the meaty curve of Michael’s shoulder.

“Good stars,” Trevor mutters. The way his quiet voice feels against Michael’s side is interesting. It makes his stomach tighten with a bit of an electric feel that oozes out naturally and spreads in a warm sort of way.

Half of Michael’s mouth tugs towards a smile. “Yeah. Not too bad.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features a little "spot the meme" mini game, so enjoy that!

“So… how are you?”

Michael blinks at the inside of the fridge. Finally he grabs the jug of orange juice, adjusting the phone into his shoulder. “I’m, uh, good. Actually. Real good.”

“Seriously?” Amanda asks through the phone.

“Yeah,” Michael snorts a laugh, shutting the fridge again. “Seriously. Weird right?”

“Very,” she agrees. “Honestly Michael, I wasn’t too sure you’d be able to get out of the habit.”

“What habit?”

“Misery.”

“Well hey, seems life’s full of surprises.” He slides a glass onto the counter. “How bout you, you out of the habit?”

“Just about,” she returns. 

He finds himself suddenly curious. “Where are you right now?”

He can practically hear her smile through the phone. “Just enjoying my new residence.”

“Oh yeah? Do I detect pool-side?”

“Beautiful day for it,” Amanda answers. “And there’s plenty of pool-side to enjoy. It’s almost too much, this porch is the size of the house.”

“ _Almost_ too much?” Michael smiles.

“Almost,” she agrees contentedly.

“The kids there?”

“Jimmy’s here, sleeping still. I swear I heard that damn game until five AM.”

“Mmm, lucky you.”

“Smugness has never been a good color on you, Michael.”

“What about Trace?” He clumsily fills up a glass with his free hand, just splashing a bit on the counter with a light swear.

“She’s better, I think it’s easier on them now that we’ve given it sometime. It really is better, you know. They see that.”

“Mmm,” Michael hums around the orange juice. 

“She said she had a good time with you two the other night.”

Michael manages not to choke on the orange juice, dropping it down on the counter again. He clears his throat. “Oh, yeah?”

“She said you threw… ice-cream through the french doors?”

“Yeah, uh, that’s all sorted out. Don’t worry about that.”

“But you two are… I mean last time we talked it was—?”

“Yeah. We are,” Michael says. “I guess, I mean, yeah, yes.”

“Is he…” Michael can hear the uneasiness in her tone, “there now?”

“Uh,” Michael leans over the counter to peer into the living room. 

Trevor’s still unconscious on the couch, splayed over most of it like a drugged cat, exactly where he left him last night, although now it looks like his face is stuck to his arm with drool. 

“Yeah, actually. He’s sleeping though.” 

And hell that came out wrong. Very wrong. Considering this relationship was pretty much just scraping awkward 6th grader levels of intimacy. Hell, if that. And the weird thing was he didn’t actually mind that, the simpleness. It wasn’t that. What bothered him like an itch under the skin was how Trevor still felt… off. They hadn’t had many moments: that night a few days ago, falling asleep on the hood of the car, and last night, when he’d accidentally nudged his shoulder watching that movie and Michael had ended up drunkenly draping an arm around him. Both times it had been the just the same. Like was that close and yet far off at once. Trevor still felt stiff and edgy, like he didn’t want to accept any of it. Eventually he would ease, slightly, but even then, he still felt like he was ready to jerk and bolt like some animal snapping out of the glare of headlights and dashing back into the dark.

“Are you going to tell the kids?” the voice in his ear asks.

Michael starts. “What?”

“About you two, about… whatever the hell’s going on there.”

“I uh,” Michael blinks, “hadn’t thought about that.”

“Right, of course you hadn’t,” Amanda sighs, nothing but complete lack of surprise in her voice. “Why would you think of anyone else?”

“Hey,” Michael returns, “I’m trying alright.”

“Then are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Going to tell them?”

Michael sighs running a hand through his hair. He narrows his eyes at the couch, but he really does look beyond asleep. “I don’t know.” He tries to imagine Jimmy’s face and instantly regrets it. “Is that… totally necessary?”

“Well that depends. Is it serious?” Amanda asks. “This thing, with him?”

Michael looks at Trevor. He’s still wearing hot pink running shorts and a top to match, both of which are pulled in absurd directions from a night of sleeping on the sofa. Trevor shifts suddenly, making a sound like a drunk and startled cow before scratching himself and rolling back onto his drool stain. 

Michael let’s out a long sigh. “Yes. It’s serious.”

“Then don’t you think you should tell them?”

“Christ, I don’t know Mand, isn’t it, hell, kinda soon for that sort of thing?”

“Michael, if he’s staying there— I mean, do you really want them to find out by walking in on something that frankly would scar the darkest corners of the pornography industry?”

“Whoa! Hey!” Michael yells. Trevor shifts suddenly on the couch. Michael quiets instantly, glaring at him until he settles back to sleep.

“What?” Amanda asks.

“ _Christ_ ,” Michael swears, moving towards the glass doors out onto the back portico and shutting them quietly behind him. “That’s not, we’re not… _that_ is not part of this equation, alright?”

“Look Michael, I don’t care what ‘equation’ you’ve got going,” Amanda sighs through the phone. “All I know is that if you’re in a _’serious’_ relationship, _especially_ if it’s with someone the kids have known since they were _conceived_ , they deserve to know about it.” 

Michael let’s his head fall back, gazing up at the sky. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“What’s that?”

“ _You’re_ right,” he repeats.

“ _That_ is never getting old,” Amanda grins.

“Yeah, yeah,” Michael mutters. Something crashes in the kitchen. “Shit. I should go.”

“And you’re not going to conveniently forget we had this conversation.”

“No, I’m not, alright? I’ll talk to you later. Enjoy that football field of a fucking porch.” He hangs up, turning back to the house and giving his neck a good preemptive crack.

Michael opens the door and instantly turns the other way. “For _fuck’s_ sake Trevor!”

“What?” Trevor asks, peering over his shoulder as he continues to empty his entire bladder directly into the kitchen sink.

“ _What the fuck do you mean what?_ ” Michael screams at the wall, decidedly _not_ turning around. “There are five, _five_ fucking bathrooms in this house!”

“This was closer,” Trevor shrugs, the jingly piss sounds still echoing around the kitchen like some fucking mountain stream background track. 

“How are you _still_ — know what, that’s enough, alright, get your dick out of my sink.”

“All done,” Trevor smiles breezily, snapping the shorts back into place.

“ _Wash_. Now.” Michael insists.

“Wash what?”

“ _Everything_.”

“I thought you told me to get my dick out of the sink?”

“Everything but your fucking dick alright, just make some damn effort to cleanse this since I won’t be able to cleanse my fucking mind. Yes?”

Trevor grumbles something, but turns the sink on anyways, erratically drizzling dish soap all over the place. “Don’t see what the _big_ deal is.”

“Don’t see what the big deal is? You mean the big deal of spraying _urine_ all over the fucking food area?”

“It’s a _drain_ , alright. Christ, what is this House Rules.”

“Yes. Alright, let’s go ahead and call this House Rule Fucking Number One: _piss_ goes in the toilet.”

Trevor looks over his shoulder, arms dramatically soapy up to his elbows. “What about the pool?”

“ _In, the, toilet_ ” Michael repeats. 

“Ah. Well. In that case you might want to ask your whoever the fuck to step up the chlorine load out there for the next few days.”

Is this honestly what his life has come down to? Standing in his kitchen with the smell of piss and lavender soap drifting around him, watching some lunatic in an outfit a fifteen year-old would get sent home from school for whistle the ER theme while washing his hands with half a container of dish-soap. God, something must wrong with him. Seriously, _deeply_ fucking _clinically_ wrong, because still, _somehow_ , this, right here feels more natural than the past ten years of perfect Vinewood mornings.

“Hey, listen,” Michael starts again, moving to sit at one of the stools by the counter. 

“Mmm?” Trevor asks, turning off the sink with a dramatic flourish and spinning to face him. “You got a whole list of rules ready to go here? Should I take out a fucking note-pad?”

“Shut up alright, I wanna ask you about something,” Michael tries, and hell he’s already regretting every aspect of this.

“You’re doing that a lot lately. Getting a bit weird if I’m totally honest.”

“T,” Michael continues peering back at him imploringly.

“And none of it about things I _want_ to have an opinion on by the way, like wether or not we watch shitty action movies until two in the fucking morning.”

“That’s not— hey, what are you calling shitty?”

“The shit. I’m calling the shit shitty. That shitty shit you made us shovel on in last night.”

“ _That_ ,” Michael starts defensively, “was a fucking classic.”

“Sure. Classic shit.”

“I don’t remember you complaining, in fact I remember you being fucking riveted.”

“Yeah, well see sometimes, when the boredom reaches truly _critical_ levels, my brain just glazes right over, which I’m sure to onlookers might look like rapt fucking attention, but trust me—“

“I want to tell the kids,” Michael blurts. And wow. He’ll really do anything to win an argument these days won’t he?

Trevor blinks back at him. “What? What kids?”

“My kids.”

“Tell them what? You have a shitty taste in movies. _That_ I’m sure they know.”

Michael swallows, holding his look firmly. “About us, alright, I want to tell them we’re… whatever the hell this is.”

Something truly panicked suddenly flashes behind Trevor’s eyes. “Why?”

“Because they should know. Shouldn’t they?”

Trevor turns away, suddenly pacing across the kitchen floor. “Okay but _why_ , why _should_ they know? And what is there _to_ know, I mean it’s not like there’s anything _actually_ happening. Why does it matter?”

Michael feels a suddenly flash of unexpected anger. “Hey, it matters to me. Doesn’t it fucking matter to you?”

“I didn’t—” Trevor starts, shaking his head hard, “fuck”, then stops, glaring out the door with his back to him, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Look it’s just… this is fine. Okay. It’s fine. Like this. Why poke it with a fucking stick?”

“Because…” Michael starts, “I… hell, I want them to know, I fucking do.”

Trevor grumbles something inaudible at the door.

“Look, I’m trying to get out of this habit of being a generally deceptive piece of shit, alright? Thought you’d appreciate it.”

Trevor spins. “Yeah, well I don’t think your loin fruit will appreciate learning that good ol’ uncle T is the reason they’re not one big miserable family anymore!” The second the words are out of his mouth the panic behind his eyes flares and he’s instantly staring hard at the floor. “Not that that’s the fucking reason. I know that. I didn’t fucking mean that.”

Michael stares back at him, not exactly sure what to do. He didn’t actually take that diffusing human emotional time bombs class in high-school.

“That _is_ why,” he says. “I mean not totally. But, well, hell, mostly.”

Trevor glances up at him, and christ he hates that expression, the expression he pulls like a fucking dog that’s been kicked in the face and somehow believes it won’t happen again and is utterly convinced it will all at once. It’s like something stuck between wanting to snarl and whine and it does shit to Michael’s stomach that he really wishes he never had to feel ever again. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Trevor sniffs, dragging the angry disregard back into place. “Still a bad fucking idea.”

“Why?” Michael pushes back.

“Because!” Trevor snaps. “I don’t need two of the fucking handful of human beings I actually manage to care about deciding they’d rather hate my fucking guts instead!”

Michael’s stunned. And there’s that fucking face again. Damn it.

“Trevor, christ, they’re not going to _hate you_.”

“ _You_ ,” Trevor points sharply, “don’t get to fucking dictate that.”

“They won’t!”

“They _will_! That’s how it works.”

“That’s not,” Michael sighs, dropping his head into one hand and giving his forehead a good rub before sitting up straight again. “Look. They’re going to have to find out eventually, right?”

“No. Not right. The opposite of fucking right.”

Michael meets his eyes firmly. “Trevor.”

Trevor glares back. “Fine. Fucking fine. I guess eventually. But _eventually_ is not fucking immediate.”

“So what? They find out some other way first?”

Trevor growls something, pacing across the floor again. Michael lets him. It takes a good few minutes for him to finally come to a stop and a few more before he opens his mouth again.

“Fucking when?” Trevor grumbles. 

Michael fumbles. “I, uh, actually hadn’t thought about that yet, but maybe… tomorrow?”

Trevor glares at the stucco wall. “Fine. Fuck it. Tomorrow.” And with that he turns, heading toward the door.

“Hey,” Michael calls after him, “where’re you goin’?”

“Out!” Trevor roars back. The front door slams behind him.

Michael sighs, staring out across the empty kitchen. “Well, how do you think that went, Michael? Oh well, ‘bout as well as can be expected. Oh, so shit? Yeah, shit. Fucking christ…”

 

It’s only a few minutes before noon when Michael gets to the cafe. He checks his watch for the eighteenth time just to be sure. Still early. Good.

He chooses a spot by the door, makes an attempt at casually leaning on the wall and instantly regrets it, righting himself again back into the sincere posture of immense emotional discomfort. Christ. Maybe this was a terrible idea. Who knows if anyone will even show up.

Jimmy and Tracey might still be pissed at him for all he knows. Sure, they’ve talked some since he and Amanda told them about the divorce, but not enough to feel totally secure with things yet. But hell, did anyone ever feel totally secure with their kids? Anyone outside of 90’s family sitcom specials at is. But still, even if they weren’t mad at him, they might not take his impromptu coffee invite seriously. They hardly took anything seriously. Tracey’s only consistent in the fact that she’s twenty minutes late to anything, and Jimmy forgets he even made plans half the time, especially if something better and usually internet related comes up. And Trevor… well… Trevor.

He hasn’t heard from him since he fucked off yesterday morning. Michael texted him the time and location once he managed to get ahold of the kids yesterday, but he didn’t get anything back. He’d tried calling. No answer. Nothing. So who the hell knows. Maybe he’s just lucky enough to spend the next hour lurking outside a cafe providing the attraction of Extremely Awkward Man for any nearby people watchers.

Someone clears their throat immediately next to him. “Hey.”

Michael jumps hard. The shock of someone sneaking up on him unnoticed is bad enough until he actually looks and his stomach flips right the hell over.

Trevor shifts uncomfortably next to him, glaring down the street and adjusting his sleeve. Sleeves. And hell, quite a bit to go along with them.

He looks good. There’s really no other way to put it. Bizarrely, shockingly: good. He’s wearing a suit. That fits. Fits pretty fucking well actually. Black dress shirt, no tie, just buttoned up to his clavicle with a lighter grey suit jacket and pants that don’t seem to have a single damn wrinkle except a neat crease right on the front from the knee down. He’s even got some leather oxfords that look somewhere between navy and indigo and expensive looking steely aviators that flash a little blue in the sunlight. He looks like a something out of a damn movie, a fucking Las Vegas con artist, or double-agent spy playing the government, or, hell he even _smells_ fucking great—

“Alright, alright,” Trevor grumbles.

Michael can’t manage to say anything. Something very weird is happening behind his stomach. He can’t stop fucking looking at him. Why the hell can’t be stop looking at him and how does _Trevor_ look better in a fucking suit jacket than he does?

“Just fucking get it out of your system alright?” Trevor continues.

“I, uh,” Michael manages. Nice. Very eloquent. “What?”

“Whatever oh-so-clever little wise-cracks you’ve got lined up, alright. I get it. I look like a fucking accountant so let’s hear it before your brats show up.”

“You _do not_ look like a fucking accountant,” Michael says with half a laugh that sounds _way_ more stunned than he means for it to.

“Oh yeah?” Trevor asks, peering at him over his sunglasses.

“Uh, yeah,” Michael swallows.

“Not bad?”

Michael feels himself try to shake his head and nod at the same time. “Not bad. Not fucking bad.”

Trevor sniffs. “Got to admit, more comfortable than I expected.” 

“Yeah,” Michael turns away before he makes even more of an ass out of himself rolling his eyes hard. “Completely fucking comfortable.”

“Hey, dad!” a voice calls.

Trevor jumps. Actually fucking jumps. 

“Hey! Jim!” Michael waves back as Jimmy walks the rest of the way up to them. “Your sister coming?”

“Yeah, yeah she’s just on the phone,” Jimmy waves idly behind them. “Hey uncle, T.”

Trevor clears his throat roughly. “Yeah. Hey kid.”

“Trace!” Michael yells down the sidewalk. She’s leaned against the car on the phone and gives him half a wave. “Any time, hun!”

Trace rolls her eyes but it looks like she’s wrapping things up. 

“How’ve yah been, dude?” Jimmy asks Trevor, giving him something between a high-five and a hand-shake.

“Fine. Good,” Trevor says curtly. Michael gives him a look and he just glares back.

“Nice duds by the way,” Jimmy continues. “I don’t I’ve ever actually seen you wear like… actual _pants_ before.”

“Yeah, well, life’s full of surprises kid.”

“ _Sorry_ ,” Tracey groans, meeting them finally. “I’m here, I’m here, alright?”

“Yeah, alright,” Michael gives her a quick squeeze around the shoulders. “C’mon, let’s get some coffee, huh?”

“God dad, I don’t even _drink_ coffee,” Tracey complains, heading towards the door all the same.

“Then get whatever. It’s on me.”

“Yeah no shit,” Jimmy notes, heading in after his sister.

Trevor doesn’t move, just stares at the door. Michael plants a hand firmly on his shoulder and pushes him in first. 

“Hey,” Michael calls, “we’ll grab a table out on the porch here, take my card,” he says to Jimmy, handing it off and heading towards the quieter side of the back patio.

He sighs roughly sitting down at a round table under a cream colored umbrella. Trevor sits down stiffly next to him, back straighter than usual.

Michael taps his hand idly against the table, trying to line the words up right in his head. And hell, it’s not nearly as easy when they have to be actually fucking true. 

He glances over at Trevor. He has a hand on his knee under the table. It’s shaking just enough to notice. 

Michael snatches it in his own before he can think better of it. Trevor’s fingers feels stony and awkward under his skin. 

“Hey,” Michael murmurs, “it’s fine.”

Trevor doesn’t answer but his fingers relax slightly, opening just a bit. Michael runs with it, sliding his between Trevor’s and holding on even tighter. Feels a bit weird, more like the best way to keep a horse from bolting than anything honestly intimate.

Jimmy and Tracey shove back out the door. Trevor tugs his hand back to himself instantly. Michael leans back again with a grimace, pulling the expression it into a rough smile as he gives the kid’s a wave.

Jimmy collapses into the chair closer to Trevor and Tracey slides into the one next to him. They both have… interesting drinks.

“The fuck’s that?” Michael asks.

“Bubble tea,” Tracey answers, as if that explains everything.

“ _Bubble tea_?” Trevor repeats.

“Mhmm,” Tracey hums around her straw, “it’s like… tea and pudding kinda, I think.”

Jimmy rolls his eyes. “It’s got tapioca balls in it.”

“Jesus christ,” Trevor swears, leaning back further in his seat.

“Card. Please,” Michael asks, holding his hand out.

“I know, I know,” Jimmy complains, sliding it over.

“So,” Michael tries, fumbling the thing back into his pocket. “How’re you two doing?”

Jimmy shrugs. “I don’t know. Fine. I guess. You know, for being emotionally scarred.”

“Emotionally scarred?” Michael asks raising an eyebrow.

“Well,” Jimmy continues with a dramatic sigh. “Children of divorce don’t have it so easy.”

Trevor shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“Oh right, I see,” Michael says, “so that’s what’s traumatizing. Not, I don’t know, having armed men storm the house intent on violence or anything like that.”

And hell that’s not helping, he can practically hear Trevor’s knuckles dig into the plastic arms of the little coffee shop chair.

“ _That_ is at least interesting,” Tracey continues, “divorce is so, ugh, just… _ordinary_. Lame. I tell people my parents are getting divorced and no one even cares.”

“Right, right, so attention doesn’t factor into it at all I guess, huh?” Michael can’t help.

“You know what I read,” Jimmy starts, half way through a gulp of bubble tea, “I read, that divorce is _way_ more psychologically damaging than just having parents who straight up hate each other.”

“Psychologically damaging for who?” Michael notes.

“You know who,” Jimmy returns. “ _The children_.”

“Yeah, and you’re children still, huh?”

“That’s what _you_ keep saying,” Jimmy insists. “That’s what you act like most of the time anyways…”

“Look,” Michael says, feeling Trevor’s nerves like a fucking lightning storm next to him. “Honestly, has it been worse, or better?”

Neither of them seem like they want to be the first to answer. Tracey takes a long loud sip of her tea.

“Mom does seem happy…” Jimmy answers eventually. “Like, really happy.”

“That’s good,” Michael smiles, “that’s what I wanted.”

“Are you happy?” Tracey asks suddenly, looking up at him. 

Michael swallows. Fuck. Here we go. “Yeah hun, I’m happy.”

“What about you uncle, T?” She asks.

Jimmy snorts. “He’s always happy.”

“ _No_ ,” Tracey insists, “he is not. Are you? Right now I mean?” she asks again peering back at him with genuine interest.

Trevor can’t seem to help smiling. “Yeah, sure sweetie. I’m happy.”

“Great, everyone’s fucking happy,” Jimmy groans. “Who’s buying the cake? We can do a big family photo, everyone smiling like the disney channel and we can all wear matching denim jumpsuits and jump into the air in unison for a freeze-frame, because we’re all so fucking happy and normal now, huh? That’s why you wanted to ‘catch up’, dad? To get that plan into action!”

“Great, Jim, that’s real fucking great.”

“Well what the hell do you want, huh?”

“ _God_ do we _have_ to always just _yell_ at each other!” Tracey joins in and suddenly they’re all trying to talk at once, louder, and louder until suddenly Trevor’s voice shoots out over theirs.

“ _I’m dating your dad._ ”

That shuts everyone up. 

Michael glares at him in complete shock. He’s not the only one. Half the fucking patio is staring right along with him.

Trevor stares out at nothing in absolute horror as if the proclamation as much a surprise to him as much as everyone else.

Jimmy blinks. “Uh, what?”

“Oh christ,” Michael groans.

“Who’s…? Wait— what?” Jimmy continues. 

“We’re, christ, we’re together, alright,” Michael manages. He nudges his head in Trevor’s direction. “Us.”

Jimmy stares. He opens his mouth. Then shuts it. Then opens it. “ _Together_ as in…?”

“Dating. Together. Whatever,” Michael finishes roughly.

Jimmy’s mouth falls open again. “You’re… are you kidding?”

“Oh, my, _god_ ,” Tracey exclaims. “Are you _serious_!?”

Michael swallows. “Yeah. Serious.”

Trevor is still glaring at the air like he can’t believe he actually even opened his mouth to begin with.

“Wait, so,” Jimmy starts, gazing awkwardly at the cement a glass surface of the table. “You’re like… gay?” 

“I’m not fucking gay,” Michael says fucking _instantly_ and regrets it just as fast as Trevor’s glare swivels onto him.

“But you’re in… a romantic relationship… with a guy?” Jimmy continues.

“Yeah, you got me there, alright,” Michael sighs, “Look, I didn’t mean- christ, it’s not… I’m not exactly _anything_ alright, I don’t know. Hell, I don’t give a fuck what I am. I’m just, we’re just, together. Alright. That’s all. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

“Is this… why you and mom split up?” Tracey asks.

“No. I mean yeah. I mean… look, what we said, your mom and I, when we told you, that was the truth, alright? We weren’t happy. This, hell, I guess this is part of why we weren’t happy.”

“Oh my god…” Jimmy stares.

Michael glares over at Trevor. “You’re being especially fucking mute. You gonna help me out here?”

“Hey I started it!” Trevor snaps, eyes still panicky. “What the fuck am I supposed to do, run the damn family meeting?”

“Does mom know?” Jimmy asks.

“Yeah,” Michael says. “I told her first. I mean, before anyone.”

“You did what now?” Trevor suddenly snaps. “Seriously?” Jimmy insists. “Dad?” Tracey starts, all at once.

“What? _What?_ ” Michael yells.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” Tracey asks, expression open and sincere.

Michael sighs, leaning back with both hands braced against the table. “Hell sweetie, I don’t know, I didn’t want to make things harder for you.”

“Harder?”

“Yeah, with the divorce and all the rest of it.”

“Dad,” Tracey says levelly, “this makes everything, so, _so_ much better.”

Michael stares. “What’s that now?”

“Are you _kidding_?” she exclaims. “ _Divorce_ is just this boring word, _’growing apart’_ and all that is a snore-fest, I’m embarrassed to tell because because it’s just so… _blah_! But: ‘hey my dad actually decided he’d rather go gay with his partner-in-crime-slash-best-friend of twenty years’ now _that_ is worth talking about!”

Trevor gazes back at Tracey’s beaming face looking just as lost as Michael feels. “What’s this now?”

“It’s just _cool_! So much cooler than just boring old _divorce_. Jeez dad, I never thought you’d actually end up being cool.”

Michael turns to Jimmy. “Do you know what the hell she’s talking about?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy sighs. “She’s unfortunately right. It’s actually way cooler than just getting divorced.”

“This even makes _me_ more cool! Ohmygosh maybe they’d give me a reality show! _‘My Gangster Dads’_ or something like that.”

Michael decides it’s best to ignore that. ”So, you’re saying, that _this_ ,” he gestures lamely to Trevor who just narrows his eyes back at him, “actually makes all of this… somehow… better?”

“Yes!” Tracey insists.

Jimmy shrugs. “Look… it’s a hell of a lot easier to know that you just, uh, had some other shit going on instead. I mean it’s better than thinking you you just got bored of us, or had a midlife crisis, or something like that.”

“I wouldn’t rule out that crisis,” Trevor mutters.

“Anyways this means it isn’t, you know, _our_ fault,” Jimmy finishes lamely.

Michael gazes back at him. “Fuck, no, course not. Hell, it would never be your fault.”

“I know, I know, I just… yeah, alright. This is easier. _Weirder_. Definitely much, _much_ weirder. But you know… you’re weird. It’s kinda nice to know you’re actually, sort of, embracing it, or whatever. That’s actually less weird than you, well, pretending to be normal. That was always pretty awkward.”

“Yeah,” Michael can’t help pulling half a smile, “yeah guess so.”

Less than half an hour later, and a heck of a lot emotionally lighter, they walk together out of the cafe together. 

Jimmy actually gives him a sincere smile as he turns back to the car and Tracey gets three feet away before turning back, hopping up onto her tip-toes and kissing Trevor on the cheek before running after her brother. 

They stare after them in silence as the car pulls away, merging in with the rest of the Los Santos traffic.

“Well,” Michael notes, watching as they vanish into the distance. “That was…”

“Yeah. That was.” Trevor confirms. 

Michael glances over at him. He’s still having a hard time looking at that suit without it doing unsettling things to his state of mind. Well, don’t fucking look at it then. He turns back towards the sky, blinking up at the blue. “Want to call Frankie and get real drunk?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”


	9. Chapter 9

The music’s almost too loud to hear himself think. Funny that it doesn’t seem to bother the other two nearly as much, or at least not in any way he can notice. Maybe only this loud just cause they’re walking in the front door, maybe that’s the ‘design’: punch you in the face with bass as soon as you enter to get you all jazzed up. Right, because ‘all jazzed up’ is exactly how anyone in this place's target demographic would describe it. Maybe not so much Jazzed Up as ready to suck ecstasy right out of the nearest set of fingers.

The club is jammed, music throbbing, green and blue lasers dancing across the floor, the walls and everything in-between. There’s a packed translucent bar over to the left side, and most of the floor is splattered with neon paint that lights up in the pulsing blacklight under the feet of the dancing crowds.

Were clubs always this damn irritating? It wasn’t like it was _that_ long ago since he was in places like this every single night and sometimes most of the day. Was it that long ago? Maybe it hasn’t changed at all, maybe he’s just turned into a crotchety old fart. Hell, maybe it’s both. In any case, he’s tipsy enough as it is to at least find the whole thing kind of amusing on top of annoying as hell.

“ALRIGHT!” Trevor roars, voice carrying easily over the droning beat of the music. He stretches out both arms, like he’s the lord of the fucking universe, spinning to face them with a grin plastered over his face. “Bring on the bullshit!”

“Man fuck you,” Franklin yells back, “I fucking like this place.”

And doesn’t that sound familiar. “Who needs another drink?” Michael calls, already turning in that direction.

“Yeah. I want one of those,” Trevor says, jerking his head in the direction of three girls passing with purple and pink concoctions in spindly glasses that honestly look like something out of a kid’s chemistry set. “Looks like how Dr. Seuss likes to get fucked up.”

Michael can’t help chuckling; he glances over his shoulder at him. Trevor lost his jacket at the last bar, and the dress-shirt somewhere between here and there. Hell, Michael almost found himself turning around to search for them again, he’d been so fucking floored at the damn look he managed to pull off. But honestly, what was left behind wasn’t so bad either. He still had the sunglasses and what looked like one of those fancy fifty-fucking-dollar plain t-shirts, a kinda grey, “heathered” or whatever people who aren’t him call it. It’s a closer fit with one of those v-necks so you can wear it under open suit-shirts and all of that bullshit. Least he still had the suit pants too. Altogether still not bad, really not fucking bad, and hell he really needed to stop repeating that in his head or it was going to slip out of his mouth after three more drinks and wouldn’t that be a fucking treat.

“YO, YO!” a voice calls out behind them. Michael turns a few feet from the bar, just in time to see Franklin catch Lamar’s hand and pull him in for a short one-armed hug.

“Yo, made it, huh?” Franklin smiles, happy little drunk he fucking is. Michael really thought that was pretty adorable, considering how much shade the kid threw around normally. Trevor thought so too. They’d talked it over.

“And look what we got here, Sonny and fuckin’ Cher!” Lamar turns to Trevor and Michael with his own tipsy smile. He gives Trevor a hug too, and after a moment’s pause doesn’t give Michael anything more than a nod.

“ _I’m_ Sonny,” Michael notes sloppily, leaning back onto the bar.

Trevor snorts. “Who the fuck doesn’t want to be Cher?” He collapses against the bar, shoulder nudging against Michael’s in a way he probably shouldn’t be noticing as much as he is.

Trevor slams his hand down hard, making the closest people jump a foot off their stools. “ ‘EY! Gimme some of those, the ones that look like liquified muppets, yeah? Make it a few!”

“And a martini,” Michael mutters.

“And an olive with some ethanol and pompous-ass wrapped around it for this fucker!” Trevor roars before turning back. “You kids want sumthin’?”

“Man I’ll just take one of your liquified muppets there,” Lamar answers. “You want something dog?”

Franklin’s staring out over the rest of the club. “Nah man, I think I might get out there.”

“Yeah man, I feel that, I feel that, there’s some _fine_ action out there tonight.”

“You just got here dog, how’d you know shit?”

“Man it’s a full moon up there - don’t you know the _finest_ woman are always out when it’s the full moon?”

“Man, what the fuck are you? Soothsayer of the fuckin’ pussy? You up on some mountain top chuckin’ chicken bones around waiting’ for the planets to align and get you laid for once this century?”

“Man don’t be hatin’, I’m here to help motherfucker, just spreadin’ the good word.”

Trevor turns back with at least three clinking neon concoctions. Michael gets his own martini off the counter as the bartender runs for it.

“Alright, alright,” Trevor starts, “help yourselves to our bounty!”

“Man give me that cookie-monster lookin’ motherfucker there,” Lamar says, snatching the blue drink.

“Bottoms up!” Trevor downs the pink one and the green one before Lamar finishes the blue. He grits his teeth with a hiss. “Christ. That goes down like clown urine.”

“Got some experience with that?” Lamar raises an eyebrow.

“Stay out of Florida,” Trevor answers firmly as if that explains everything.

“Man you don’t need to tell me that shit,” Lamar answers, “I hear those dolphins get a little _too_ fuckin’ friendly if you feel me?”

Franklin shakes his head. “Man fuck y’all and your dolphins, I’m getting out there. Comin’?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Trevor hurries, slamming the empty glasses back on the bar. And suddenly he’s _far_ closer to Michael’s face than he’s ready for. “Coming?”

Michael blinks back at him, neck suddenly feeling too warm. “What?”

Trevor doesn’t back off, still leaning in close, and christ he can smell those drinks on him, and more than that. Under the booze he almost smells as neat and sharp as that suit looked, but there’s something else too, something kinda leathery and raw, that’s reminding him how even in that suit it was still Trevor’s posture that twisted it with a cocky slant and made it look just that interesting.

“Wanna dance, sugar tits?” Trevor asks.

Michael stares back and how the fuck does talking work when your throat feels this fucking dry? “I uh, I don’t dance.”

Trevor snorts. “Is that right?”

“Yeah,” Michael manages, he turns to his drink, giving himself a bit more space to breathe. “I suck. You know that.”

“What a shock.” Trevor just leans in closer with a little hiss right in his ear. “You’re a fun-sucker. Know that?”

Michael tenses, but when he turns Trevor’s already gone, heading after Franklin towards the dance floor.

“Hey!” Trevor calls over his shoulder to Lamar. “You coming?”

Lamar hesitates. Michael feels him glance in his direction. “Nah. Nah man, I’m gonna get a few more drinks.”

Trevor gives half a wave before they close in on the floor, easing right into the pulse of bodies and music.

Lamar takes the seat next to Michael. “What’s that?” He nods at his drink.

Michael takes a long sip with a grimace. “Martini.”

“What goes in that?”

“A lot of fucking booze.”

“Yo! Gimmi one of these martinis over here!”

Michael grumbles, trying to shake off the heat still fluttering around his neck. Stupid. Just fucking stupid. Of course he doesn’t dance. Weird thing for people to do anyways, throw their damn bodies around like some nature special. Yeah, no thanks.

Lamar takes his drink from the bartender, leaning back against the counter with a thick sip. He whistles instantly. “Damn! You weren’t fuckin’ kidding!”

“Not bad, huh?”

“Power fucking jets with this shit?”

“Pretty much. That or self-loathing.”

His gaze travels idly over the crowd. He can see Franklin’s found a girl to dance with, her friends moving somewhere around her. He can’t see Trevor. Hell, he’s probably right in the fucking middle licking molly off someone’s face. Something flares under Michael’s chest at that thought. It takes him by surprise. Hasn’t been the first thing to do that today, and christ hasn’t that been a fucking treat?

“So. What’s good?” Lamar asks.

Michael sighs. “Fuck if I know.”

Lamar snorts. “Yeah man. You got that vibe.”

Michael could probably ask “what vibe” but he’s not sure he has the energy honestly.

“So, uh, you two…?” Lamar leads.

Michael takes another drink. “We’re not fucking.”

“Hell, shit I know. You made that pretty damn clear.”

He did didn’t he? Multiple times…

“But you’re like… together, whatever? Franklin said seemed like it.”

“Yeah. Together. Whatever.” Michael agrees brittlely.

“So that advice worked out, huh?” Lamar asks, already beaming.

Michael can’t help snorting. “Oh yeah. Really. Like a fucking dream.”

“See man, see I knew. You might be master of all this Oceans 11 bullshit shit, but this is my PhD, aight? You stick with me, man. I got you.”

Michael mutters something that may have been “very fucking comforting” into another long drag off the martini.

Lamar keeps talking. He’s telling him some story, or a couple of stories. Michael isn’t exactly listening. Lamar doesn’t notice, or doesn’t really mind. Michael let’s the energy of the place carry him, the familiar kerosene-like burn of the booze on his tongue, that feeling of senses lighting up and burning out in rapid succession. The music doesn’t help any either, the steady strong pulse that feels like his heart in his chest or his blood under his skin. Hypnotic. Constant. His eyes blearily scan the faces in the crowd. Young faces. Full of life and energy and so much fucking time left ahead of them. They’re not all young. There’s people his age too, at least a few of them. Men leering at the crowds over dark booze in expensive looking suits, older women too, gazing out with experience and finely made handbags, looking as thought they’re all hunting for something very particular.

His gaze catches on one woman in particular, dancing on the floor with the rest. She’s older, although likely a few years younger than him, but fit, with dark hair down around her shoulders and a short skirt that shows of pretty damn good legs. She turns back to someone in the crowd, reaching in and pulling them closer and fuck, of course. Fucking of course.

Michael’s eyes narrow. He lifts his drink again, watching as Trevor’s hands slide around the woman’s waist, hips moving to the beat of the music.

“But it’s good?” Lamar asks. Michael suddenly realizes he’s asking him a question.

“What?” he blinks.

“It’s good? You two? Partners in crime and whatever the fuck else.”

Michael clears his throat. “Yeah. I guess. Yeah.”

“‘I guess’? What’s that mean?”

“Nothing,” Michael hurries. “It’s fine, whatever.”

“Mmm, you’re really good at the whole Confiding man, you know that?”

“Look, it’s fine, what’d you want?” Michael snaps without meaning to. The woman’s got one hand behind Trevor’s neck, another palm down on where his shirt’s stretching a little too tight over his chest.

“I mean, hell is it what you expected and all that?” Lamar continues.

Michael’s ready to snap at him again but he swallows it. He wants to turn and look at him, focus on something, anything else. So why the fuck can’t he?

“It’s,” Michael starts to answer. “Hell, I don’t know. I don’t know what I ‘expected’.”

“Well, the whole not-fucking but saying something you mean thing. That going well?”

Michael feels his jaw tighten. Trevor’s hand is sliding to the top of the woman’s tight-skirted ass. “Fine. Fucking fine.”

Lamar shakes his head. He sounds more drunk than he had when they started, must be the martini. “Shit man. I mean hell, different strokes for different fucking folks but I don’t get you. I mean _at all_ dog.”

Michael frowns. “What’s that mean?”

“I just couldn’t _go_ without getting any. Hell, it’s what makes me go. Fucking booty alarm clock every morning. Get up Lamar, get out and get some action.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Is that a fucking fact?”

“Hell _yes_ motherfucker, I mean whatever man, to each his own. Potatoes, po-fucking-tat-os, yah feel me, but _shit_ —”

“‘Shit’ what?” Michael pushes back. “What’s so fucking hard to believe about that?”

“Nuthin’,” Lamar shrugs, “look, like I said, whatever floats your yacht… Just sayin’.”

“Just saying what?”

“Hell man, I mean, look, _I_ don’t swing on that side of fucking street, yeah? Not unless there’s at least some titty buffer-zone in the mix, yah feel me? But hell, _that_ motherfucker’s got some pretty undeniable sex appeal.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Right.”

“Yeah! Right!” Lamar shoves right back. “Hell man, like I said, not my fucking genre, but man anyone can see that he’s got some pull.”

“Pull. Yeah. Trevor’s got pull. Like a black-fucking-hole.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Lamar insists. “Exactly like that shit! There’s an energy there man, a hell of a fuckin’ energy.”

They’re still dancing out there. If you can call grinding to some mild sense of a fucking beat dancing.

Michael swallows the last of his drink with a grimace.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Lamar continues, “hell, you’ve known the fucker longer than anyone, yeah?”

The woman’s wrapped her arms around his hips. They’re a good deal closer than they had been. Trevor’s fingers slip under the line of her shirt. She slides one hand up his arm, and wraps it around the tattoo of Michael’s name on his shoulder.

Suddenly Michael’s standing.

Barely standing.

“Whoa, homie take it easy there,” Lamar calls, but Michael’s got his balance, or at least enough of it to push through the crowd. He can hear Lamar following him yelling something, but he doesn’t hear him, he doesn’t hear much of anything. He focuses, waiting for it, and there it is.He grabs Trevor’s arm the second he sees it and pulls hard.

“Hey-o!” Trevor manages, falling sideways and just managing to stay standing. Michael takes the moment while he’s distracted to glare fire at the woman, who just rolls her eyes at him and melds back into the crowd.

“Change your mind?” Trevor asks sloppily. He’s leaning hard on Michael’s shoulder to stay properly upright.

“No,” Michael grumbles.

“Well, good, cause I wasn’t asking,” Trevor continues blithely. “So then what’s your problem?”

“Let’s go,” Michael blurts. “It’s fucking lame, let’s get out of here.” He turns for the door, hand still firm around Trevor’s arm.

“Jeez, finefine _fine_ , pushy, christ. _HEY_ , FRANKLIN,” he yells back into the crowd, voice grating loudly above the music. “We’re _going_!”

By the time they stagger outside where there’s a line of at least fifty people waiting to get in Franklin and Lamar have caught up to them. Michael takes a deep breath of fresh air and lets go of Trevor’s arm quickly.

“Man, what the hell?” Franklin calls, “don’t we get to take a vote or nuthin’?”

Michael’s already heading up the sidewalk. It takes a little more energy than it should to keep in a generally straight direction. “Bored. Too fucking boring.”

“Yeah, for _you_ ,” Franklin insists, “man some of us were pretty damn entertained.”

“Man whatever, there’s plenty goin’ on tonight, didn’t you hear me?” Lamar notes, pointing towards the sky.

“Man enough with that shit, woman aren’t fucking werewolves dog.”

“Shows what _you_ fucking know,” Trevor notes. “Hey,” he calls after Michael, “where the fuck are you goin’?”

Michael doesn’t turn around. He keeps heading up the street. “I felt like a fucking walk alright.”

“Yeah, cause that doesn’t sound familiar,” Franklin snorts behind them.

They’re following him. He didn’t ask them to follow him but it’s actually helping, hell just being out of that place is helping with the music and the heat and the whole damn energy of it vanishing behind them as he heads up the hill. He feels like he can breathe properly again. Hell, what the fuck happened back there?

“You know,” Michael starts again, turning this time to glance over his shoulder. “Not that far from my place, I might just head back.”

“Aw come _on_!” Lamar calls. “Don’t be like that man, the night’s just gettin’ started!”

“Well what the hell do you want to do?” He asks. He is feeling better. Just him being an idiot _again_ , getting too drunk and too irritated with the whole vibe in there.

“Man, fuck if I know,” Franklin answers, shoving his hands in his pockets. “We could go down to the beach?”

“Man there’s no woman wandering the beach at night,” Lamar complains.

“The manatees come up sometimes round now,” Trevor notes. “Heard they can be a _pretty_ good time.”

“Man I’m not fuckin’ no dolphin, hell.”

“They’re not dolphins, they’re _sea cows_.”

“Yeah. Cause that’s a hell of a lot more appealing.”

“Christ,” Trevor shakes his head, “don’t even know what a manatee is? What are you kids learning in schools these days, huh?”

“Not what marine life is fuckable if that’s the damn question.”

Michael feels himself smiling. He grins at Trevor over his shoulder as Lamar and Franklin keep bickering behind them and Trevor actually smiles back. Just like always. Just Trevor, normal fucking completed abnormal, Trevor. He looks decent in suits and after a shower, hell, who doesn’t? And so what if Michael gets a little pent up in a close room with music too loud and drinks with names like Peach Aurora. Who the hell wouldn’t? This is fine. Totally fine.

“What if,” Lamar tries again, “we could go down to the fair man, I could get drunk on a damn ferris-wheel.”

“It’ll be closed,” Michael notes.

“So? We can start it up again! Man we turn on those lights at midnight half the town would show up!”

“Half the fucking 5-0 too,” Trevor says.

“Nah, nah, fuck that,” Franklin continues, “let’s go down to the docks man, someone’s gotta have some boat party goin’. Hell - let’s get our own boat party goin’!”

“Y’all have a boat?” Lamar asks.

“Not yet,” Franklin beams.

“ _That_ is not a bad idea,” Trevor hums. “How bout it Mikey?” He slaps a hand on his shoulder.

Michael hesitates. “I did like that boat…”

“Alright!” Trevor tugs an arm around Michael’s shoulders. “Sold! To the man in the frat-boy sneakers!”

Michael smiles at him and Trevor smiles back with a half drunk wink.

Years later he would wonder if it that would have been it. If nothing would have changed between them, if things would have been just the same if what happened next hadn’t happened. If they had stayed in the club, or taken another street, if they had done anything different, and the purple car driving down the hill hadn’t suddenly seen them and slowed, windows rolling down to reveal shiny metal behind that Michael didn’t see until he heard the shots fire.

At least five things happen at once. Franklin yells something that must be a warning. The sound of shots explodes through the quiet of the street. Someone’s shoving him hard out of the way, pinning him against the wall of an alley as shards of dust and concrete burst around them. Screams starts from a few directions. Tires squeal. The shooting stops.

It can’t have been more than five seconds. He’s not sure if it feels like more or less. He’s not sure of much, besides the fact that Trevor has him pinned tight against a wall, breath thick against his neck and hands bunched white knuckle tight on his collar.

He’s muttering something, something that Michael can’t quite hear. It’s a little hard to hear because suddenly his heart is thudding too loud to make sense of fucking anything and for some idiotic reason he’s pretty sure it’s not because some gang-bangers just tried to assassinate him.

“Shitshit _shit_ ,” Trevor’s swearing. He’s close enough to his goddamn ear that Michael actually shivers and fuck why why _why_ does he want him to just lean in even closer and do it again. .

Michael swallows hard, trying to think, and why the hell does it feel like someone’s filled his head with some very warm sloshy liquid? He opens his mouth to say something, anything and that’s when Trevor’s hand glides up his side and his entire brain gives up entirely.

“You alright? Fuck, Mikey, are you alright?” Trevor’s snarling at him. Michael blinks, tries to focus. Are you shot you fucking idiot, he’s checking to see if you’re shot, he’s asking if you’re shot!

He looks up and christ. Mistake. Giant fucking mistake.

Trevor’s amber eyes are glaring right back him, vivid and furious, and fucking terrified. Michael just stares back, feeling very grateful there’s a wall behind him. “I think. Are, uh, are you?”

“The fuck’s that?” Trevor snaps, suddenly catching Michael’s jaw in his hand and twisting his neck sharply to one side. The liquid heat in Michael’s head swirls, before dropping hard down to a warm furious anticipation behind his ribs.

Trevor’s glaring at the side of his neck, one hand still bracing him back against the wall. His the other thumb suddenly drags against the side of Michael’s neck and fuck, his knees actually go limp under him but Trevor doesn’t seem to notice.

Trevor lifts his hand back. His thumb’s red.

“’S nothing,” Michael tries hoarsely. “Graze. Really.”

But apparently it’s too fucking late for that. Something goes black behind Trevor’s eyes and suddenly he’s running back towards the road.

Michael just manages not to fall right on his ass, catching a hand against the nearest thing which lucky for him is a friendly neighborhood dumpster.

He bends over, catching himself on his knees, taking a few deep, uneven breaths. “Fuck me.”

He hears something nearby and suddenly the world comes back, jolting him upright. “FRANKLIN!”

“Yo dog, right here, ’s fine,” Franklin hurries, putting a hand on his shoulder before turning back down the road. “YO! HOLD THE FUCK UP!”

Michael squints. Trevor and Lamar are already half way down the street. Trevor’s smashing the window of the nearest SUV and they’re half in before the alarm even sounds.

“WE GOT THIS!” an apparently undamaged Lamar yells back. “WE GOT THIS! YOU TWO GET BACK, YAH HEAR!”

Michael tries to focus as the SUV rips off the curb and down the road after the vanishing tail-lights of the gangster’s car.

Michael blinks. “The fuck was that?”

Franklin turns back to him with a sigh. “Those fools, running off like fuckin’ cowboys, shit.”

“Should we, uh,” Michael tries, and christ he’s still having a hard time standing up right. He gets himself off the damn dumpster at least, giving his neck a twist and trying to seem like anyone who’s got at least a reasonable grip on life. “Shouldn’t we get after them?”

“Nah dog, I know that car. Those guys are small time. Can’t even pick off your fat-ass drunk on a sidewalk. Those two’ll have no problem. Shit if they had just fucked off, the cops would have had no problem. And hell, you alright?”

Michael tries to shake it off. “Fucking fine. It’s nothing.”

“You’re bleedin’?”

“Just grazed. Seriously. Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Franklin’s brow furrows with concern, looking at his neck but he doesn’t seem too concerned. “Alright, maybe it’s not bad. Ruined your shirt though.”

“Yeah. I’m fucking heartbroken.” He turns back towards the hill with a sigh. “C’mon, you’re coming too. We can wait for them to get back.”

“Man, who knows if they’re coming back tonight.”

Michael grits his teeth. “Well come on anyways, fuck it, it’s two blocks. You can stay there tonight. Don’t head back to your place alone.”

“Man I told you it’s nothing.”

“Hey, just do me a favor and save me worrying about it, alright?” Michael snaps.

Franklin doesn’t say anything but follows him all the same. It takes them less than ten minutes to step into the empty house, closing the glass doors behind them.

Michael finds himself heading up to his room almost instantly. He collapses into bed and listening to Franklin idly make himself at home in the rooms of the house. He listens for a long time, trying not to think, staring out through the thin curtains at the lights flashing in the city below.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @kahan for the beta read!

He tries not to hurry down the stairs and isn’t exactly successful. Someone’s making noise in the kitchen. A good deal more noise than he thinks Franklin would make. He’s not sure what time it is. The house feels a little strange, and based on the light he’s not sure if it’s just cloudy outside or still too early for the sun to be coming in the windows.

Trevor’s in the kitchen, just like he knew he would be. He’s fiddling with something on the counter, but his back’s turned so Michael can’t see what. He’s leaning? on one arm, still wearing what he was last night. There’s a bit of blood staining that grey shirt, and a thick slash or two of red wrapping around the muscles of his forearm. Michael doesn’t say anything right away. He’s not sure why. But it feels right, standing in the arched entry, watching how his leaning bunches his posture on one side, the shirt pulling against the lines of his back.

“You woke me up,” he manages finally.

“Oh yeah?” Trevor hums.

“What fucking time is it?”

Trevor just shrugs. He turns to face him, posture still loose and limber, like some jungle cat on opiates. He smiles lazily back at Michael, eyes heavy. There’s a splash of blood drawing a line up his neck past his eyebrow.

“Christ,” Michael can’t help swearing. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Trevor doesn’t seem particular phased. He keeps staring at him with that lazy smile. He seems weirdly closer than he had a moment before. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Yes!” Michael insists, trying to keep his voice reasonably together. He’s definitely closer now. “Running off like some fucking idiot into the night. I don’t even know if you’ve been shot, or are about to be. Not even fucking waiting for Franklin or me to back you up - not picking up your phone! What the hell do you think—“

“It’s your fault,” Trevor says simply. He’s much closer now, close enough that Michael takes a step back. He puts a hand out and there’s a wall behind him that feels oddly familiar and wrong at once.

“How the hell is it my fault?” Michael glares.

“You made us leave,” Trevor answers. “You were jealous, so you made us leave. Who knows, if we had stayed, and you had just bit your big fat tongue, maybe none of this would have happened.”

Michael opens his mouth. “That’s not… I didn’t mean—“ But Trevor’s much closer now, as close as he could get. Michael can feel a warm trickle of blood on the side of his neck. There’s a hand snaking around his hip. He can’t stop looking at the red on Trevor’s face. “I didn’t…”

“Didn’t what? Mean it?” He can see Trevor’s tongue tracing the inside line of his teeth in a way that’s making his mouth go dry and his eyes feel heavy. Trevor leans in closer, body still not touching his. Just. His voice is a close rumble in his ear. “Nah, you didn’t mean it. You never mean it. Do you?”

Trevor opens his mouth against the bleeding side of Michael’s neck. 

Half a groan stumbles out of Michael before he can catch it. He slumps back against the concrete wall, hand catching at Trevor’s shoulder, fingers digging in harder than he meant. Trevor lets out a satisfied hum that Michael can feel vibrating low and deep against his skin. 

“Fuck—“ Michael mutters, blinking quickly, trying to focus on exactly what the fuck is happening. But Trevor’s thigh suddenly shoves right into the line of his hard cock with a good grind.

Michael almost loses complete control of his limbs then and there. He feels his knees go useless, which just makes the pressure on his dick that much _more_. He’s got a hand in Trevor’s hair, clenching tight as Trevor drags his teeth against his neck, and “ _Hell_ —“

Trevor’s shifting, sinking. His thigh leaves the space between his legs and Michael just manages not the let out a whine at the loss. Not that it matters, once he feels Trevor’s hands are on his belt, hears the sound of his knees hitting the tiled floor. 

“What’re you—“ he starts.

Trevor opens his mouth on the clothed line of Michael’s cock. 

Michael swears hard, smacking his head back against the wall that suddenly smells like the street and emptied bullet casings. His hands slide hard into Trevor’s hair pulling him closer, so desperate to feel _that_ again he doesn’t even care about Trevor’s fingers trying to rip open his belt. Trevor groans, and then, the groan cuts short.

Michael blinks. He looks down.

Trevor’s staring back up at him. He looks younger suddenly. His hair is longer than it should be. There’s snow under his knees.

He blinks up at him, face pale and empty. “Mikey?”

Michael lets him go instantly. Trevor falls backwards. Slowly, too slowly, and when he finally hits the ground, the snow underneath fills steadily with red.

Michael shoots awake.

He stares across his bedroom with wide-set eyes, brain fumbling back into place as his breath comes hard in his chest.

A dream. Just a fucking dream.

He lets out a shaky sigh, dragging a hand heavily down his face. 

God. What the hell was that? He stares across the room intently, stuck in the truly uncomfortable place between clammy nervous fear and the tight arousal still pulsing around his limbs. He knows without even looking that he’s still rock-fucking-hard, and god that’s just ten kinds of wrong. He considers briefly just jamming his hand under the blankets and jacking himself off until it’s over and done with, but that somehow feels like a guaranteed way to feel sick at himself for the rest of the day.

He falls back onto the pillows with a shaky groan and glares up at the ceiling. He takes a deep breath, focusing on literally anything else until this goes away. 

It takes longer than it ought to.

By the time he heads down the stairs, face still raw from the amount of cold water he’s splashed on it, he can hear Franklin’s voice, and another along with it. He’s not sure if he’s grateful or not that it isn’t Trevor’s.

“Hey,” Michael manages, heading into the kitchen and reaching instantly for the waiting pot of coffee.

“Hey,” Jimmy answers. Franklin nods with his mouth full of cereal. “Since when do you sleep till noon?”

“It’s not. Fuck, is it?” Michael asks.

“Almost dog,” Franklin agrees, “hell, I slept pretty late too, no sweat.”

Not that he fucking knows of.

“You shoulda woken me up,” Michael grumbles, taking a good sip of the dark coffee. 

“Don’t you like, sleep with a gun under your pillow?” Jimmy asks skeptically, pouring himself more cereal. 

“Not for the past month.” He glances down at his phone. No new messages. No missed calls. He looks over to Franklin, “Any fucking word?”

Franklin shrugs. “Got a text around 5AM.”

“From who?”

“Lamar,” Franklin answers. “He said they ‘took care of it’.”

“Yeah,” Michael grumbles into his coffee. “I’m fucking sure.” No call for him. Not even a fucking text. Perfect. Cause why would he be worried? Why the fuck would Michael want to know if he was fine or bleeding out in some back alley gutter?

“Took care of what?” Jimmy asks, mouth still full of cereal.

“Just ran into some shit last night,” Franklin says.

“Oh yeah?” Jimmy asks, in a tone that suggests he’s trying to sound less interested than he obviously is. 

“It wasn’t nuthin big, just some punks seein’ an opportunity and gettin’ out of their depth,” Franklin notes.

“Who was it, anyways?” Michael asks. 

“You didn’t see?”

Michael rubs a hand against the back of his neck. “I didn’t exactly catch most of it. Happened pretty fast.”

“Yeah well, that makes sense, they was after you by the look of things.”

“Oh yeah?” Michael asks.

“Yeah man, I mean you’re the one who took down Stretch and those fools. I recognized the dude driving, one of his little projects. Must have been out for some revenge, lookin’ to the cement some cred and fill that gap. They was only really shooting at you, man.” 

“Is that uh, what happened there?” Jimmy asks, eyeing Michael’s neck.

“What? Oh,” Michael runs a hand over the ridge of red there, feeling his cheeks heat up again like an absolute moron. “Yeah. But it’s nothin’.”

“Man, almost was a shit ton worse than nothing,” Franklin says. “Good thing Trevor shoved your ass out of the way.”

“Yeah,” Michael tries to focus. The cut feels deeper than he thought last night under the tips of his fingers. “Right.”

“What happened then?” Jimmy asks, looking at Franklin like he’s some movie star.

“Shit well, they just kept driving, obviously didn’t have the balls to finish what they started. And damn Lamar and Trevor went after them. Not like they needed to. Those fools would have gotten picked up by the 5-0 two blocks down the damn road after the mess they made.”

“Fucking moron,” Michael snarls, gripping his coffee a little too hard. “Chasing after them like that, not even _waiting_ , reckless fucking idiot.”

Jimmy snorts into his cereal.

Michael looks up. “What?”

“Ah, nothin’, nothin’.”

“Yeah well that fucking smirk on your face isn’t nothing, is it?” Michael pushes.

Jimmy rolls his eyes, leaning back on his stool. “Dad. Seriously.”

“What, seriously?”

“ _You’re_ complaining about someone being reckless? Christ, it just sounds like he’s trying to take care of you.”

“Bullshit,” Michael snaps before meaning to. “He’s just a dog chasing cars, too stupid to care about getting hit.”

“Nice,” Franklin rolls his eyes.

“Uh,” Jimmy shrugs, “chasing cars that try to _shoot you_.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Michael turns back to his coffee, “It was stupid anyways. No matter what.”

“God dad, you’re _such_ a hypocrite!”

“What’d you say?” Michael snaps.

“You act like a crazy person chasing down Tracey or I because we’re in danger, spilling people’s brains all over the sidewalk like it’s _nothing_ because you’re ‘protecting us’, but when someone does it for you, suddenly they’re the idiot? Then what are you?”

“ _A dad_ , alright? It’s fucking different.”

Franklin smiles at his cereal. “Not that fucking different.”

“See,” Jimmy scrambles, “he gets it!”

“No. He fucking doesn’t. And neither do you. Show me your fucking kid giving you the middle finger, _then_ maybe you’ll get it.”

“Whatever,” Jimmy sighs, “look, he’s just watching your back. Isn’t what you two do, what you’ve always done?”

Franklin gives Michael a smug look. Michael ignores him. He takes another long sip of coffee. “Maybe. But they shouldn’t have gone alone.” Or at least he should have called. Something. Anything.

“Man, whatever. They said they took care of it, and I’m sure that’s the least of it.” Franklin gets up from the counter with a stretch. “Look I got better shit to do than hang around here all day watching you bitch.”

“Yeah dad,” Jimmy grins. “Don’t be such a bitch.”

Michael glares. Jimmy’s smile vanishes.

He twists back towards Franklin. “What, uh, what’re you gonna do?”

Franklin shrugs. “Shit, I don’t know. Walk my fucking dog.”

“Yeah, yeah, cool,” Jimmy tries. Michael rolls his eyes.

Franklin frowns as Jimmy attempts a casual lean onto the table. He looks at Michael. Michael looks back. Franklin sighs.

“You wanna come, dog?” he asks Jimmy.

“What? Oh uh, nah… I mean I don’t want to, you know, cramp your style or whatever.”

“Nah, come on,” Franklin says with a shrug. “I could use the company, whatever.”

“Yeah? Alright! Yeah, sure, sounds good,” he stumbles back to his feet, and suddenly glances at Michael. “Are uh, you gonna come?”

Michael looks back. Jimmy meets his look with nothing but sincere curiosity. He’s not sure whether to be more shocked or flattered.

“Uh,” he starts. He glances at his phone on the countertop. The screen is still dark. “Nah, it’s alright Jim. You guys go I’m gonna stick around.”

“Yeah?” Franklin asks.

“Yeah - I’m sure, go on.” He waves them out of the kitchen. It’s only a few seconds before the door shuts, muffling the voices that head out towards the drive behind it.

He stares at the wall across from the counter. Is this it then? That’s what he’s decided to do with his day? Brood?

He picks his coffee back up with an angry sip. “Damn fucking right.”

The first couple of hours are the easiest. He manages to direct most of the rage at the jackasses populating his TV. That almost gets him past lunch, until Steven Haines’ smug fucking face suddenly splashes against the screen and he just manages to stop himself from throwing his coffee cup right at the thing.

He wastes a couple more hours sorting through everything in the house he always hated and piling it in the garage. There’s less of it than he thought. Amanda must have moved most of it up to the new place weeks ago. The first to go are all the stupid _idyllic_ paintings, then the kitschy statuettes, and finally the giant fucking juice machine right out of the kitchen. He stares at it all in one stack on the cement floor of the garage and considers actually just setting the whole thing on fire before pinning a note to it that just says “shit to get rid of” for whomever cleans the place when he’s not around. He’ll see how the afternoon goes. Maybe if it keeps heading in this same direction he’ll make time for a bonfire later.

He manages to take a few furious laps in the pool before trying to pass out and nap away the rest of the afternoon, toasting under the sun in sag of a pool-chair like he used to. He just manages to doze off when his phone buzzes next to him. He jolts awake so hard he falls right out of the damn chair, only to pick it up and listen to Tracey complain for twenty minutes about how all the girls working at Amanda’s new gym are so pretty she can’t get anyone’s attention. And then there’s nothing left to do but sit, and stare, letting the anger simmer up to a steady boil.

By the time six o’clock rolls around he’s honestly considering putting his phone right on the top of the damn pile in the garage and kicking off his solo barbecue properly. Or hell maybe it’s just easier to hurl the thing right into the pool.

He sits up properly in the lounge chair, glaring over towards where the horizon is already deepening to shades of pink and orange, the shapes of the palms in the yard getting darker and darker against it. 

He looks down at the phone in his hands. 

“Fuck it.”

He dials before he can regret it.

Someone picks up. But they don’t say hello. There’s multiple voices laughing far too hard in the background for him to hear much of anything.

“Hello?” Michael yells. “Trevor?”

“Yeah, yeah! Hey! What’s goin’ on?” Trevor’s voice yells back.

Michael blinks. “ _’What’s going on?’_ ”

“Yeah! Hey, hey,” he’s yelling to someone in the background again, “shut the fuck up for a second, wait wait hold on, nah wait for me, _hey_ , I said fucking wait!” And there’s the laughter again. Michael’s pretty sure Lamar’s is one of the voices but there’s far more than one.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Michael snaps.

“What?” Trevor says, managing to put his attention back on the phone. “Ah, nothing. Just chillin’ with my new blood brother here.”

“Man fuck off,” Michael hears Lamar’s voice through the phone, “I’m not swearing no fucking blood oaths with your crazy ass, put that fucking knife away! _Again_ with the giant fucking knife!”

“Hey, I _like_ my giant fucking knife, and it has low self-esteem alright, so take it easy,” Trevor roars back. There’s a chorus of laughter in the background, sounds like mostly women.

This was a bad idea. The anger that was rolling around his stomach has leaped up into his chest with a fucking fury he might have a hard time understanding if he had any energy left for goddamn introspection.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Michael grits.

“Christ, I don’t fucking know. Everywhere, _everywheeeere_ Mikey. Lemme tell you something, this has been an _enjoyable_ damn day.”

“I had no fucking idea where you were — I _still_ have no fucking idea where you are!”

“What?” Trevor roars back into the phone, someone’s turned up the music in the background. He wishes he could smash a fucking bat right into whatever sound system was making the damn noise. “Christ, hold on, hold on.”

It sounds like he’s moving, the music is getting quieter behind him. Trevor let’s out a sigh, like he’s leaned against some mysterious wall Michael wishes he could fucking see.

“Shit, lemme tell you something man, these kids know how to have a good time.”

Michael pinches the bridge of his nose hard, trying not to make even more of an ass out of himself. “How long are you going to be there?”

“Dunno,” Trevor shrugs. “Why? You wanna do something?”

Michael glares at the horizon. His jaw is too fucking tight, almost as tight as the fist he has balled up against one knee. 

“Yeah,” he answers.

“Great,” Trevor rolls on, “how ‘bout I meet you down on the boardwalk or something. I think we’re near there.”

“When?”

“Whenever, what, call it about an hour?”

“ _About an hour_?” Michael yells back.

“Yeah. See yah.” Michael just manages to hear Lamar yelling for him before the phone cuts off.

He stares ahead, the phone still against his face. He takes a deep breath and suddenly throws the phone as hard as he can.

It makes a nice arch over the pool, curving down exactly as the regret starts to kick in. He stares dumbly as it vanishes into someone else yard.

There’s a soft thunk. Then a second later a voice over the hedge, “What the _fuck_?!”

Michael swears, hurrying back inside. 

 

He gives it an hour and half before he pulls up to where they usually meet on the boardwalk. Even after he parks, he doesn’t get out right away, staring at his hands on the steering wheel instead. The sun’s down now, but the colors are still lingering. The streetlights in the parking lot have just come on, looking a little strange and superfluous in the twilight.

He tries to breathe steadily. He feels calmer, but he knows that’s mostly bullshit. He’s got a knack for wrapping anger up into a tight little package that slips neatly into some hidden pocket only to snap out again like a switch-blade, ten times worse for it.

A hand suddenly slaps down on the roof of the car.

Michael jolts, glaring out the window. 

Trevor’s leaned over on the roof, staring back at him. “The fuck took you so long?”

And that’s all it takes. Michael just manages not to smash the door open right into his giant fucking forehead. He pops the handle, scrambling out and slamming it behind him. “Fuck you!” 

Trevor takes a step back. “Whoa there, sorry, what? Did I interrupt the road-rage decompressing period?”

Michael opens his mouth to yell right back. Then stops. Then stares.

“What the hell is this?” Michael blinks at Trevor’s outfit. 

“ _This_ Mikey is what they call, The Summer Collection.”

Michael stares. How the fuck can he _not_ stare? He’s jammed into a hot pink dress that’s riding well _well_ above his fucking knees.

Michael tries to focus. Suddenly it feels like a hundred different things are trying to happen in his brain and once and the only thing he’s sure of is that he’s fucking angry.

“How the fuck do you even fit into that?” Stop looking. _Stop fucking looking_.

“Eh,” Trevor shrugs, “fucking zip only goes up half the way, see,” and then he’s turning and suddenly Michael’s face to face with the muscles of his back, pink straps squishing into them and that fucking zipper popping at the pressure of all _that_ underneath it, and fucking christ he is _not_ blushing, he is goddamn pissed off and that’s _all_ he fucking is.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Michael snaps.

Trevor turns back. “Hey - it’s the patriarchy that makes it weird for you man, _that_ is not my fucking fault.”

“I’m not talking about the fucking dress!”

Trevor frowns, as if he’s only just now noticing he’s actually angry. “What then?”

“ _You_!” Michael yells, “god fucking _you_! What the hell were you thinking, Trevor? Running off on like, like — a fucking maniac!”

“Ah, right,” Trevor narrows his eyes, his tone darkening. “A fucking maniac, huh?”

“You vanished!” Michael plows right on hardly even hearing him. “I had _no idea_ where the fuck you were! You could have been dead! Do you have any idea how many scenarios were flashing through my fucking head, huh?”

Trevor just stares. As if he has no idea what the hell he’s supposed to say.

“Well?” Michael roars. “Do you? I didn’t fucking _sleep_ you piece of shit! And today - fucking today, nothing, fucking _nothing_!”

“What the hell were you so damn worried about?”

“About _you_ , god! Fuck!” Michael turns, slamming his hand down on the roof of the car. “You are _such_ a pain in my fucking ass!”

“Yeah well, since when do I not know how to take care of myself, huh?” Trevor calls to his back.

Michael spins back to him and god, the way he’s looking back at him — he looks so damn lost.

“It was stupid, T,” Michael manages. “It was fucking stupid.”

“ _Stupid_ ,” Trevor snarls, suddenly taking a step closer. “They tried to fucking _kill you_!”

“So what!” Michael snaps.

“SO FUCKING EVERYTHING!”

Michael looks away from his face instantly. Down. At his legs. God fucking dammit _do not_ look at his legs!

He throws his head back, drilling both hands into his eyes. “God… what the fuck even is this, T?”

“Whatever the hell you said it is!” Trevor yells back, and now he’s angry, and god isn’t that just fucking perfect.

“So what? We’re together?” Michael asks, looking him in the face again.

“Why the fuck not suddenly? Because I don’t fucking call you every six hours?”

“ _Yes_!” Michael yells. “When you’re, christ, when you’re _with_ someone, you let them know that you aren’t fucking lying gutted in the middle of nowhere! When you’re _with_ someone you don’t flinch like you’ve been fucking _bitten_ every time they try to tell you they care, or show you they care, or _fuck_ me!”

It’s too far. He knows as soon as it’s out of his mouth but it’s too fucking late now and the fire ignites behind Trevor’s eyes.

“ _You’re_ fucking worried,” he snarls, “ _you’re_ fucking concerned, well _fuck you_ , Michael! It’s always about fucking you! You’re worried that I’m dead, but you get _shot at_ and I don’t get to bring down some _serious_ damn justice on those pricks? How the hell is that any different?”

“Trevor—“ Michael tries feebly.

“ _You’re_ the one who said you don’t want anything. And now what? You’re the one who calls me a pussy for being a little fucking on edge about this entire damn thing?!”

“I didn’t fucking say that—!“

“You said enough,” Trevor bites. He takes a step closer. Michael takes a step back, hitting the car behind him and swallowing hard. “It’s all about you. It’s _always_ about fucking you! Your feelings. Your terms. Well, you don’t know what it’s fucking like do you? You have no fucking idea how it feels to spend most of your goddamn life wishing for something only to have it fall straight into your lap, and you have no idea how fucking terrifying it is when it does!”

Michael blinks. “What?”

“Shut up!” Trevor’s stare is explosive, muscles tense and furious under that goddamn dress. “Do you have any fucking idea what it feels like to spend your entire shit-heap of a childhood thinking you’re missing something, something that everyone else seems to just fucking have? And then in one moment, on an airfield, in the middle of ass-end nowhere, to see _your_ fucking smug, arrogant, jackass of a face and suddenly, it’s just _there_. That missing piece just fucking slots right into place and you’re not the empty sack of shit you were, suddenly there’s _something_ and it feels so fucking _right_. And you dream about everything it _could_ be, everything you fucking _need_ it to be, only to have it _ripped_ right the fuck out of you again? Do you know what that’s like? Huh? To spend a fucking decade trying to fill that fucking hole back up again? And no matter how much meth or blood or cum you _pour_ into it, it never makes a fucking difference?”

Michael stares back at him. He’s having a hard time breathing.

“Dreams don’t come true,” Trevor hisses. “You taught me that, Mikey. And it was a good _hard_ fucking lesson. So don’t think you can just snap your fingers and make me believe in goddamn miracles.“

Trevor glares down. Michael stares back up. Somehow, it feels like the whole world around him takes a deep breath.

“Fuck it.“ Michael kisses him.

It’s not a very romantic kiss. In fact, if someone walking past was the to draw a comparison, it’s probably most like some five year old kid kissing someone before they lose their courage. Eyes screwed shut, hands hard on the sides of his face, lifting himself up onto his fucking tip-toes to reach. He’s sure he looks ridiculous. He’s also sure he couldn’t care less. And, that he’s never, ever, kissed anything harder, or meant anything more once in his entire fucking flaming train wreck of a life.

Trevor freezes. For half a second, maybe less. And then, all at once, he melts, and it turns into a _very_ different sort of kiss _very_ quickly. 

Trevor’s jaw drops open with half a groan. Michael inhales sharply as Trevor’s tongue rushes into his mouth. All greedy heat and fury. He feels his back shove against his car, and _god_ it’s good. It’s more than good. It’s fucking _shattering_. 

There’s nothing. Nothing but the goddamn _everything_ of Trevor’s open mouth on his: the catch of his teeth, the warmth of his tongue, the way his hands are holding him against the car so tight and so sure and _christ_. He’s never been kissed like this. He didn’t even know it was possible to kiss like this. To kiss someone like the world is tearing apart at the seams and there’s nothing left but _this_. He didn’t know you could kiss someone like you want to devour them whole and fucking fall down and worship them all at once. And how the hell, when you’re kissed like that, are you ever, _ever_ supposed to fucking stop?

Well… unless you can’t breathe.

Michael gasps, letting his head fall back against the car. He blinks, tries to focus. Everything’s suddenly foggy and warm, hazy and razor sharp all at once. He thinks he might be saying something. He think it might be “I’m sorry” and he doesn’t know why he can’t stop saying it. Trevor’s catching his head in his hands again, kissing him once, twice, making some sort of “shut up” sound that Michael feels rumbling through his chest, and god he has to focus. He has to.

“Hey, hey,” he feels himself moving, snatching Trevor’s head by either side and turning him to look right at him. “Hey.”

Trevor’s eyes have gone dark and wild. He licks his lips once. “Hey.”

Michael looks back at him as hard as he can. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest. “Not my terms. Alright. Yours. Fucking yours. What do you want?”

There’s something so starved under his gaze Michael feels his pulse start racing even harder.

“Home,” Trevor answers. “I want to take you home. Now. Right fucking now.”

Michael swallows. “Then let’s fucking go.”


	11. Chapter 11

There’s hardly any sunlight left to peer through the windshield as Michael manages to slide into the driver’s seat. Trevor climbs in after him. Michael can feel his fingers shaking slightly on the ignition but he ignores it, turning the car right back the way he came. 

Trevor’s hand lands firm on his leg and Michael shuts his eyes hard before remembering to open them again. He focuses unsteadily on the road, even when Trevor flexes, dragging his fingertips first up and down the meat of Michael’s thigh. He can feel Trevor watching, just staring in a dazed sort of way at his hand working up and down and—

“Knock it off,” Michael bites, “I’m trying to fucking drive.”

“Then drive faster,” Trevor mutters back, nails digging in even harder.

“Fuck,” Michael swears, shoving his foot down on the gas.

He’s not sure he’s ever driven so fucking fast through this city. He’s not sure _anyone_ has driven so fucking fast through this city. He’s sure there are at least four cars off the road behind them, probably a dozen pedestrians going home to brag about near-death experiences, and one bus that definitely won’t be making its next few stops. But it doesn’t matter. He’s turning up his hill. The gates slide open far too damn slowly. He jams through anyways, skidding to a halt right by the front door. No other cars. Thank fucking god.

Michael stumbles out, moving quickly for the front door and doing everything he can to get there first so he doesn’t have to stare at Trevor’s back in that dress again because if he does that they might not even fucking make it inside.

He fumbles with the lock as Trevor steps up behind him, _close_ behind him. Michael tries to focus, even as he feels Trevor’s hands land on either side of him, breath close on his neck. The door springs open and Michael almost falls right the hell in but Trevor’s hand is suddenly on his shoulder, steadying him.

“HEY!” Michael roars to the empty house, swinging the door shut behind them, “ANYONE FUCKING HOME?”

Trevor’s already using the grip on his shoulder to spin him, pinning him right back against the closed door. There’s no answer from inside the house, just quiet holding it’s breath, which is a good fucking thing because Trevor’s already kissing him again.

The pure _focus_ of Trevor’s lips on his takes his breath away like a punch to the gut. He kisses him there’s literally nothing else on the face of the fucking earth that could possibly matter more and it’s intoxicating in a way Michael _really_ isn’t ready for. He dives into it head first and can’t stop; pushing back, grabbing hold, wrapping that feeling around him tight and hard and so damn reckless. Trevor’s got him pinned - both hands pressed flat against the door on either side of his head and the mild trapped feeling just makes everything so much tighter and closer and _more_. Michael’s hands have conveniently decided they don’t give a fuck about listening to him anymore and have run off to do exactly whatever the hell they want. At this moment that’s sliding up Trevor’s neck, thumbs grazing that damn tattoo to cement themselves just where his pulse is thudding at the base of his jaw. Michael darts forward hungrily for more, catching his mouth at an odd angle and feeling stubble under his lip which is making his cock jump _way_ harder than it should. 

Trevor pulls back suddenly, and Michael just manages to bite down a moan of protest, but he doesn’t hold onto it long. Trevor’s stare burns onto his and he slides his bare leg _right_ between Michael’s, grinding in tight and firm.

The moan shoots out of Michael before he’s ready for it and suddenly his hands are snatching Trevor’s hips under that tight fucking dress, pulling him closer. Trevor huffs out some half swear looking down hungrily as he drives his leg against Michael’s fucking furious erection. Michael’s eyes drag down and he inhales sharply. Apparently, dresses are pretty terrible at hiding hard-ons, and _christ_ that just makes everything so _so_ much worse.

“Upstairs,” Trevor mutters, voice so low and so close it feels like it’s coming out of his own damn mouth.

“Fuck,” Michael’s head falls back against the door with a hard thud. His hips grind forward again, mouth darting forward, teeth catching Trevor lip mindlessly. “I don’t fucking care— fucking anywhere.”

“Upstairs,” Trevor says firmly, and Michael realizes it isn’t a question. Trevor’s hand suddenly slides behind his back, locking around his ass with one good grab and then he’s off of him, shoving at him, turning him towards the stairs.

Michael stumbles, already swearing because he’s so fucking hard that the last thing he needs to be doing right now is walking his ass up goddamn stairs. Everything feels so hazy, his feet on the steps, the look of the place, muted and blurred apart from the feeling of his own breath in his throat and how fast his pulse is thudding and the fucking _need_ scrambling up his limbs. 

He’s starting to realize just how much _not_ having this, or anything close, for so long, might be presenting some issues. He promises himself with a stumbling logic not waste a fucking second of this just because he’s rusty as hell. Trevor isn’t helping any. He can’t seem to keep his hands off of him. 

He’s tugging at Michael’s shirt as he follows him up the stairs, grabbing at the buttons from behind and jerking the thing off his shoulders. It’s barely hit the stairs before he’s fiddling with Michael’s belt, knuckles grazing his cock on the way, and god that’s slowing him right down. Michael finds himself turning around every fucking four steps to yell at him to knock it off if he wants to make it up the damn stairs, but each time he just ends up kissing him again, and trying to walk backwards, failing, catching the banister, turning again, and repeating the whole damn thing. By the time he makes it to the top and crashes backwards through his bedroom door he’s left with just his t-shirt, belt undone, and the top button on his pants popped open. Somehow managed to kick off his shoes, leaving his socks to slip on the wooden floor. Trevor hardly seems to notice. He gives him a hard shove and Michael lets out a shocked yelp, bouncing back onto the bed and just managing not to smash his skull on the headboard.

“Hey! Watch it!” Michael snarls, heat rushing up his cheeks already because Trevor’s kicking out of his shoes like they’re on fire, and suddenly he realizes he’s in a pretty good position to take a _real_ good look at that fucking outfit.

It’s ridiculous. Fucking absurd. It should _not_ , not in a million fucking years, or on any alien damn planet, be as wildly, impossibly, sexy as it is. There’s nothing in the damn equation that should be adding up that way. But that’s just Trevor isn’t it? _He’s_ the damn common denominator. He and his utter lack of fucks. And that somehow drips and melds and blends the entire thing together into a package that’s making Michael just _stare_ at how Trevor’s chest is straining the hell out of that fabric, and how fucking great his arms look against that slink, and how it sits so narrow and tight down his waist and hips, pressing his fucking undeniable hard-on taut and desperate behind it.

Michael can’t help letting out a huff of laughter. “Man, lemme say, you look _really_ fucking good in that thing.”

Trevor raises an eyebrow, kicking his last boot away. He’d been reaching for the zipper around the back but he slows down now. “Oh yeah?”

Michael meets his eyes, voice rough in his throat. “Yeah.” And without thinking he finds his own hand suddenly sliding around his waist shoving his pants the rest of the way open and gripping himself over his boxers with a short sudden breath.

Trevor’s eyes widen with this shocked sort of starved wonder, as if suddenly he can’t decided what he’d rather do with himself, and Michael can’t help pulling a ragged smile. It feels good to surprise him, more fucking good than it should. He rocks his hips up into his hand shamelessly, throwing one arm over his head and straight on _staring_ at the way Trevor’s fucking _fit_ legs slide right up into that dress, where his hip bones jut out, fighting the fabric, the raw look of his hands and the muscles of his neck twisting and twining down to where he knows they stretch tight across his back and _fuck_. How goddamn long has he _not_ looked at every single piece of him? Suddenly he can’t believe how much time he’s wasted. 

He shoves his hand under his boxers, t-shirt riding up his stomach as he does. He gets a better grip, giving himself a few proper strokes that have him biting his lip, hips staggering forward and suddenly Trevor can’t seem to just watch him any more. 

He takes two steps and swings directly into his lap, hands instantly latching onto Michael’s waist and sliding his shirt the rest of the way up. He gets it around Michael’s shoulders, leaving Michael to try and get the damn thing off of his head as he feels Trevor’s hands snatch at his pants and pull hard, hard enough to take the right side of his boxer’s half way down his hip along with them. Michael finally escapes the shirt only to feel Trevor’s mouth open instantly right at the base of his neck. The feeling of skin on skin is suddenly overwhelming: Trevor’s tongue and teeth pushing firm teasing lines into his throat, his thighs pressed firm on either side of Michael’s, the weight of his chest heavy on his. 

Michael cants his hips, suddenly desperate to get his cock against something, fucking _anything_ , but Trevor just presses him down again, making sure he can’t reach as he traces nips and kisses and breath all along his chest.

“God _fuck_ ,” Michael swears, “fucking fine,” and he shoves his palm open and firm right against Trevor’s cock. 

Trevor gasps. A gasp that snaps into a growl, as his hips grind forward against Michael’s hand with gluttonous need. Michael takes his chance, pushing him back with the pressure and sitting them up properly. Trevor just gives, goes, like he’s incapable of doing anything besides urging his hips against Michael’s hand and grumbling into his neck. Michael’s other hand finds its way around his ass and he’s suddenly tugging them even closer, using the leverage to finally urge his hips _right_ where they need to be. 

Trevor practically collapses into him, arms falling around his shoulders, one hand snatching hard into his hair, rutting selfishly against the slide of his cock. Michael feels his own mouth open against Trevor’s shoulder, mindless on the feeling, snatching a bit of that muscle into it and biting down harder than he should. Trevor hisses, pulling at Michael’s hair in a way that just makes him impossibly harder, and as good as the fucking dress is, he’s desperate to get rid of the thing. 

Michael’s hand scrambles clumsily against Trevor’s back, tearing at the zipper and shoving the thing up and off, which isn’t as easy as it looks. He thinks he actually ends up ripping it a bit to get it off his broad shoulders as quickly as he needs to, but Trevor hardly seems to care. He snatches Michael’s head in his hands, angling it to one side just slightly and then he’s kissing him again, so hard and so fucking _deep_ that Michael feels the goddamn heat in his stomach drop right down to his balls with a dangerous shove.

“Shit,” he pulls his head back with a gasp, “shit, T, I’m— fuck— what, what do you want?”

Trevor stares down at him, eyes heavy, mouth still hanging half open. His hand slides down Michael’s waist gripping at the weight around his stomach hungrily for just a moment before shoving under his boxers and wrapping firm around the heat of his cock.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Michael swears, falling back again, “hell,” Trevor gives him a good pump and his eyes fly open again, willing himself as hard as he fucking can not to come just like that, “the _fuck_ did I say!”

“Condoms,” Trevor mutters.

Michael hardly hears, Trevor’s grip tightens and Michael lets out a thoroughly humiliating whimper. Suddenly, Trevor’s palm slaps him lightly across the face. “Hey!” Michael’s eyes pop open just as his cock gives a hard pulse.

Trevor glares back at him. His hand is still on his cheek, only now his thumb is on his lower lip and Michael can’t help letting his tongue dart at it. He sees Trevor swallow. “Where’re your fucking condoms,” he grits.

Michael glances at the side-table and Trevor follows his look. He drags his hand from Michael’s cheek pulling the thing open and snatching inside. He’s off of his lap suddenly, Michael turns towards him, feeling suddenly cold and stupidly lonely, but one of the condoms lands on his stomach and he doesn’t let himself think too long about what that means. He sits up, frantically kicking his boxers down his legs and sliding the thing on as well as he can. He’s barely got it before Trevor’s shoving him back down again, swinging right back into his lap, all heat and rough skin. He wraps his hand right back around Michael’s cock, only this time his hand’s _a lot_ more slick than it was before.

Michael groans aloud, neck arching backwards at the sleek, smooth fucking feel of it. And it’s slow, fucking _achingly_ damn slow. Michael can’t help it when Trevor’s name staggers off his tongue. 

Trevor’s breath hitches in his lungs and suddenly his hand is off of him, his weight shifting, adjusting. Michael groans, trying to focus, trying to get a fucking grip. His eyes flutter open because hell, there’s something he should be doing here. “Hey,” he manages, voice blown to hell in his throat, “shouldn’t- what should I — christ, Trevor—“

And then Trevor’s grabbed both his wrists, and shoved them hard above his head. He’s staring down at him. _Right_ down at him, and there’s nothing Michael can do but stare right back.

There’s something wrong there. Something struggling behind Trevor’s gaze. A something lost and furious and starving and terrified all at once, and seeing that, looking right back at it suddenly makes Michael’s chest feel so tight and full he forgets every single other fucking thing.

“You have to promise me, you piece of shit,” Trevor grits out, fingers tightening enough to hurt around Michael’s wrists. “You have to fucking promise.”

Michael blinks back at him. “Promise? What?”

Trevor’s throat bobs as he swallows hard. His voice is a rumbling wreck. “You’ll stay. Promise you’ll fucking stay. Always.”

The feeling in Michael’s chest squeezes so tight he almost can’t take it. He tears his hands free from Trevor’s grip, holding the sides of his face as hard as he dares and looking right back at him. “I promise. I fucking promise.”

He’s not sure who moves first, but the moment the words are out of him Trevor’s mouth is back on his. 

It’s slower than before. Somehow. Slow and thick, and it feels like every bit of that tightness in his chest is somehow bleeding up into his mouth and he’s pushing it into Trevor with a kind of furious need he didn’t know he had before.

He tightens his hands on Trevor’s face, fingertips digging into his hair, and then Trevor’s hand is on his cock again and Michael just has time to notice before suddenly Trevor’s hips shift, and he _drops_.

“ _Fuck_!” Michael gasps, pulling back with a hard hiss. Which is just as well, because Trevor’s shot back up again over his hips, easing himself, lower, further, sliding Michael’s cock right up into him in a way that has Michael’s hands snatching at the blankets frantically, mind snapping into nothing but one hot white blank mess. 

Trevor lets out a broken groan shifting on his lap, _still_ , impossibly still sinking. Michael’s hands snatch at his waist, gripping hard at his hips in a way that, god, is probably too fucking tight but he can’t fucking help it. And then he’s there. As deep as he could possibly fucking get, with Trevor sitting firm and taut in his lap again, thighs giving shaky tremors on either side of Michael’s.

Michael tries to center, tries to level, tries to convince his body to do absolutely anything but explode right then and there. He takes a deep breath through his nose, then another, shaking on the exhale, scrambling to get his head above water. Trevor’s breathing just as hard, warm, velvety muscles pulsing around Michael’s cock. He seems to be reaching for the shore too, trying to remember how to level and he must be better at it than Michael is, because before Michael’s ready for he’s twisting his hips up and forward and snapping them right back down again. 

“Fucking _A_ ,” Michael gasps, hands gripping tight against Trevor’s thighs. He catches the look on Trevor’s face, a greedy sort of desperate heavy gaze. Trevor’s tongue darts out against his lip, and he does it again. And again.

A broken sound stumbles out of Michael’s throat. And god, this is going to be over so fast, _too_ fucking fast, and all he can really fucking do is let it fucking happen.

He grits his teeth. “Fuck, T—“

Trevor let’s out a growl of a groan, hand sliding down towards his own bared cock but Michael gets there first. He’s going to do one part of this fucking right, even if it kills him. He grips tight and gives him a good fucking twist of a pump. 

Trevor’s hips stutter, pace suddenly snapping into gear. Michael just manages to keep his grip, groaning through his teeth at the pressure, doing his best to match it, but he can’t possibly. It climbs and then shatters into an erratic stumble that leaves Michael swearing out his name. 

“God, Mikey, _fuck_ ,” Trevor just manages. His eyes fly open, a moan punching out of his chest and he’s coming, hot and thick into Michael’s hand and across his stomach, and _god_ that fucking does it.

Michael’s head snaps back, hips jamming hard and fast into him as the pure fucking electric depth of his orgasm drags through him. Trevor does everything he fucking can to meet it, grinding down hard and fast as he gasps through the last of his own, and Michael comes with a few final pulses, hands tight on his hips and something he can’t call a prayer or a swear stumbling out of his lips.

Trevor comes down like a demolished building, rolling off of him instantly only to collapse right against his side again. Breath warm and steadily slowing against the side of Michael’s neck, one hand knitted tight and firm into Michael’s.

Michael stares up at his ceiling and tries to remember how to feel the rest of the world. Hell, maybe he doesn’t have to. Why would he need to when there’s something like this? 

He takes one deep long breath, and as he lets it out it suddenly feels like ten thousand things go out right along with it. He can also see them, fluttering away like strips of paper on a breeze. His mind feels like it’s been stripped raw, and he waits for the sense of guilt or shame or fear to flood into all the gaps. But it doesn’t. And in it’s place there’s something warm and shockingly simple. Something that he realizes he doesn’t need to name. Something he realizes he doesn’t need to worry about fading away. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes he still has his fucking socks on. Perfect.

He tightens his arm around Trevor’s shoulder, eases his thumb along the line of his. Michael twists his head slightly, pressing his lips against his forehead. 

Trevor rolls over onto his back. After a moment his voice asks roughly, “So?”

Michael looks back at him. “So?”

Trevor starts to smile. “So, how long do we have to fucking wait until we can do that again?”

Michael snorts out a laugh, dragging a hand up through his hair. “Fuck me, I don’t know. Longer than I’d fucking like.” He blinks at the ceiling, then rolls over. “Wanna get a pizza?”

Trevor grins. “A fucking pizza?”

“Yeah,” Michael shrugs back. “I could eat.”

Trevor leans on his elbow, looking back at him. ”You know, you’re a pretty good fuck for a fat-ass.”

Michael swings his pillow right back in his face.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone for the wonderful comments and response to this story! I have really, really enjoyed writing it and had so much fun. It was a really necessary cathartic thing for me post-game and it really means the world you've all enjoyed it <3
> 
> There's a new story started today, and linked at the bottom of this last chapter :)

He can smell fire. Brakes, spilled motor oil, and fire. Lots of damn fire. 

Michael tries to focus, peering through the flames and the smoke. He can feel the scorched heat against his skin, that familiar feeling after you’ve been too close to an explosion. 

Someone’s screaming. Or was screaming. Maybe it’s just the echoes in his ears. And there are more echoes than screams. A voice, his voice, furious and bitter and everything it always could be but never quite was. 

There’s something wrong here. 

He feels sick, the smell of smoke in his lungs and the heat against his face. But that’s not what’s wrong. It’s the terror in his gut that’s wrong. Some part of him knows he shouldn’t be terrified. Not any more. That’s how this was supposed to work. If he’s still afraid, what was the point? But this is a different sort of fear, not the front of the mind bitterness in your mouth sort of fear, it’s the deep dark yawning sort, and suddenly there’s nothing to stop him from stumbling over into it and falling forever. 

He’s alone. Finally. Truly. And it’s all his own fucking fault.

Michael jolts awake with a gasp. He stares up at the ceiling, sweat prickling against his forehead. 

“Hey,” a voice murmurs. 

Michael blinks. There’s a hand on his chest. It doesn’t feel like his. 

He turns his head. Trevor stares back at him.

Funny. He doesn’t bolt out of the bed like he’s woken up to find a gutted horse under the sheets. He doesn’t let out a good manly scream and run for the fucking hills, or the balcony, whatever’s closer. In fact what’s really funny is he doesn’t even want to. Actually, that suddenly seems like the last fucking thing he wants to do.

It’s like something in his brain has just flopped upside down and now feels oddly more comfortable that way up. Like the Good Healthy gut instincts that used to crowd up the front of his head are suddenly just little voices at the back he hardly even hears, and the quieter deeper needs that usually keep to themselves, folded in shamefully at the back of his brain, have swept right to the front and uncurled themselves, lounging bright and comfortable over all the rest. And maybe that isn’t upside down. Maybe it’s finally right side up. In his own upsidedown sort of way. 

“Hey,” he answers, voice a little raw and uneasy from sleep and his world twisting itself into brand new shapes.

Trevor narrows his eyes. He’s sitting up a bit. In his bed. Interesting morning.

“You were being loud,” Trevor says. He’s got the quiet voice on. His voice. He sounds a little funny. He must have just woken up too.

“Uh, what?” Michael focuses.

“In your sleep. You were muttering some shit.”

Michael swallows. “Oh. Right.”

“Bad dreams?”

Michael stares back. “I keep dreaming about killing you.”

Trevor’s face hardly flinches. “Oh yeah?”

“It’s been happening for weeks. Since you showed up. It’s been waking me up, all fucking shaky and clammy.”

“Mm, I see that,” Trevor hums.

Michael frowns back at him. “Not too concerned?”

“Just dreams. Right? I have plenty of fucking dreams.”

Michael gazes over his shoulder. The light is starting to seep in through the curtains, thick and saturated in the early morning.

“It confused the hell out of me,” Michael continues numbly. “I thought I’d start having dreams about _you_ killing me once you swaggered right into the fucking kitchen that day, not the other way around. I should have been afraid of you creeping in in the night and cutting my fucking throat. I didn’t know why the fuck I started waking up in a cold sweat, fucking terrified after gunning you off the road or watching you bleed out in the fucking snow.”

Trevor just watches him, posture loose, expression hardly changed at all. “You ‘didn’t’ know why?”

The curtains are shifting a little against the breeze. He must have left the door open and not even remembered.

“It wasn’t you I wanted Davey to shoot that day out there. Not really. It was me. Not literally, you know, but the part of me that’s always gonna looking back at me out of you. And I think I see that now. It crept back up on me, during those ten fucking years. I missed that. Fuck I missed you, and the me that I was around you. I really did. No matter how hard I pretended I didn’t.”

Michael laughs. It feels oddly close in the normally echoing emptiness of the bedroom. “Shit, and I knew that. I knew that somewhere. Somewhere I’d never fucking admit to. I think that some part of me, that fucking pathetic lonely as hell part of me, did it all - the jewelry store, that stupid line, all of it - hoping like hell you’d find me before it was too fucking late.”

He can feel Trevor watching him. He thinks that the hand on his chest has its fingers knitted clumsily around his own.

Michael gazes out into nothingness, feeling so strangely calm all of a sudden. “That’s what kept waking me up scared shitless. The idea of losing that. For good. That piece of me, hell, that most of me that’s always you, and never, ever being able to get it back again.” 

Trevor snorts. Michael refocuses, back on him. Trevor leans back casually into the pillows. “Christ, you get all kinds of sentimental post-fuck, huh?”

Michael’s first instinct is to shove him right out of the fucking bed, but hell it must really be the sex getting to him because he’s laughing instead, dragging both hands down his face. “Very fucking empathetic.”

“Fuck empathetic,” Trevor notes. “Anyways. Nothing exactly fucking revelational.”

Michael narrows his eyes back at him. “What’re you talking about?”

“It’s the same shit every time with you. And that shit is _You_ , just you, you, you. No, ‘ah shit Trev, well I just don’t like having dreams about you getting shot in the face’, nah-nah, it’s gotta be ‘well, as a reflection of my fucked-up self, you dying gives me a sense of existential fucking dread that’s less than comfortable’. Always your fat ass first and foremost.”

“Hey now,” Michael tries to start, but Trevor bowls right over him.

“Hey, don’t feel bad about it. Accept it. Isn’t that your new fucking mantra?” Trevor rolls over, arm pressed against his. “Come on, we can work on it together. Here, I’ll go first, repeat after me, ‘I, Michael, am a selfish turd’.”

“Fuck off,” Michael grins, and since when is he _grinning_?

“What? Disagree?” Trevor asks, and now he’s pinning Michael’s hands over his head again, and shifting his weight even closer against his side. 

Michael suddenly realizes he’s still naked. He can’t actually remember the last time he slept naked. Not for a long fucking time. Even when he was younger, it was always kinda uncomfortable knowing you might have to jolt awake and handle shit at any point during the night, and he’d rather do that only baring _one_ piece. But he’d just fallen asleep so hard and so fast last night he hadn’t even realized it and can’t help feeling that stupid damn blush creeping up his neck again. 

Trevor doesn’t seem to have anything close to discomfort about being stark ass-naked. Hell, he probably wouldn’t mind being naked at the top for a fucking ferris wheel, featured in live-action color as Weazel News’ Weirdo of the Week, let alone in bed behind closed doors.

“Wanna hear the really fucked up part?” Trevor voice is suddenly much _much_ closer and everything in Michael’s body focuses like a fucking laser on the sound.

Michael swallows. “What?” At least the morning makes his voice sound more “rugged” or some bullshit instead of as squeaky as it feels it ought to be.

Trevor’s hand lands solid and heavy around his dick. “I _love_ selfish fucking you. Way fucking more than I should.”

And then he’s ducking under the sheets so fast that Michael barely has time to get out a shocked, “Hey - what’re—“

The rest of that sentence dissolves into a sharp inhale followed close behind by a heavy groan.

Michael’s hands bunch against the sheets on either side. Trevor’s tongue slides hungrily right up the full length of him and he almost fucking whimpers at the feel of it. Which might have actually been better than the sound he makes when Trevor so damn easily ducks his head forward and slides every fucking inch of him just as deep into his mouth as he can go.

“Fuck—!” Michael’s eyes pop open, hardly seeing anything. Trevor’s fingertips dig into the meat of his thigh in a satisfied way. He pulls back and drags back down again. Even slower.

Michael takes a deep breath. He tries to settle back, relax, but hell he’s already wound right the fuck up. He focuses. It’s alright. There’s no fucking rush. He takes another breath. Trevor’s already taking his time, tracing his tongue under him as he pulls up and eases his way right back down, thumbs rubbing little circles against his legs. 

It’s working. The breathing. Well, as much as it fucking can work in a situation like this. Michael lets himself melt back into the pillows with a hiss that oozes into a lazy groan. He arches his back slightly, rolling his hips just enough back into Trevor’s mouth and Trevor gives a satisfying hum, a hum that curls right down Michael’s dick, up and around the bottom of his stomach before unfolding through his throat and blooming out as another messy moan. 

He can feel one of Trevor’s hands sliding up to his stomach in a satisfied sort of way. Michael can feel him watching him too and gives a cock-eyed smile with his eyes still closed. The feeling pulses through him, and _god_ it feels fucking good. He forgot how good this felt. How did he forget that? But hell, it never really felt like _this_ did it. There’s a confidence to how Trevor handles himself that he’s never known before, and he has the weird sense that he’s being very deliberately and very slowly unwound, one thread at a time. Trevor obviously knows _exactly_ what the hell he’s doing. He tightens his lips, twists his tongue and suddenly Michael’s swearing again, hand going unexpectedly tight in Trevor’s hair.

Christ. How the hell did he go without this? How many fucking mornings did he waste not feeling exactly, _exactly_ just this damn good?

“ _Christ_ ,” Michael swears roughly, “you’re _way_ fucking better at that than I thought.”

Trevor eases back, pulling free. Michael just has time to feel the loss before Trevor’s firm hand wraps tight around him again to replace his mouth and Michael collapses back under the pressure of the grip with a growled groan.

Trevor’s smiling at him in a funny way. “Better than ‘you thought’?”

 _Shit._ “Whatever,” Michael mutters. Trevor twists suddenly with an especially firm drag. “ _Fuck_ me!”

“I thought,” Trevor drawls, teasing him up and down along the slickness his tongue left behind, “you said, _hadn’t_ thought about it.”

He drags his thumb right along the underside of the head of his dick and Michael gasps. “I lied. I fucking lied.”

Trevor’s chuckling, like he’s been told the sky is fucking blue. “That right?” He dips his head down again, letting his mouth join his hand for a few especially _good_ fucking strokes.

“ _God_ yes! Fucking yes.”

“You thought about it?” Trevor hums.

“Of course I fucking thought about it,” Michael groans, inching his hips desperately up towards his mouth again. 

Trevor tightens his grip around him again, setting a steady, dragging, _devastatingly_ slow fucking pace. “When?”

Something in Trevor’s voice has gone dark. And that is doing things to Michael’s gut it really _really_ shouldn’t be. Michael lets out a growl of a groan, arching into his touch. “ _Christ_. All the fucking time.”

“Oh yeah?” Trevor’s free hand is snatching something off the floor. Michael hardly has the consciousness left to notice it, not when everything’s gone so warm and tight and his head feels ten pounds lighter than it should and ten pounds heavier all at once. 

“What times? Specifically,” Trevor starts again. It sounds commanding in a way that’s not doing him any fucking favor, and suddenly Trevor’s other hand is taking over and it’s _slick_ as hell.

Michael bites back his groan. A thoroughly spent part of his mind tries to think of something to throw back at him, some way to avoid the answer—

“Tell me,” Trevor growls in that fucking voice again and Michael’s mouth is falling open all on its own.

“After jobs. Back then. Every time. I thought about it. What it would be like. Backs of cars. Fucking truck stops. Motels. Anything, _fuck_ , fuck, and—“ he lets out a broken groan as Trevor suddenly hitches his pace, feeling Trevor’s eyes hard as fucking steel against him. “You’d bring back girls. Guys. I’d think about it. How the fuck could I not? Of course I fucking thought about it—”

“Thought about what?” Trevor presses.

And hell he’s too far gone now. “Thought about shutting you up. Thought about shoving you up against that shitty motel wallpaper, or down on some dive bar, up on that trashy fucking counter of your goddamn excuse for a trailer and— _ohfuck_!”

Well. That’s a new one. Michael’s body goes suddenly utterly still, nothing but tenseness and the echoing ripples of the fucking _feeling_ , the feeling of Trevor’s fingers sliding into him with sudden shocking presence, twisting up precisely, lost for just a moment, and then—

“ _Fuck—!_ ”

Trevor does it again.

Michael groans so deeply it grates his throat, falling back against the pillows, his cock giving a desperate throb into Trevor’s other hand. “Fuck _me_ —!”

Trevor drags in a ragged breath. He curls his fingers up again, and again, and then he lets the hand on his cock slide, and tighten at the same exact time.

“ _God_ ,” Michael gasps. And he should be much more fucking aware of what this is doing to him. He should be making a serious damn effort to not writhe around, twisting and arching like some porno actress. He should be making damn sure not to let those messy fucking noises wriggle out of his throat, but Trevor’s watching him, watching him in a way that’s making whole new parts of his brain shut down, and unfamiliar dark and slinky instincts spring to life in their place.

It feels good, way too good, to be watched like this. Like he’s some sort of fucking miracle. Like there’s nothing else in the entire fucking universe to be watching. Trevor’s riveted. Fucking riveted. Watching Michael squirm around under his touch, watching Michael gasp and groan and stutter out erratic chunks of his name. And Michael finds himself arching into that look, tongue darting out to wet his lips, fingers twisting in the sheets, hips rolling fucking shamelessly only to hammer down onto him again in a way that makes Trevor groan aloud.

“God, I wish you were a fucking girl,” Trevor growls.

Michael can’t help laughing aloud, breathless and lost. “Fucking excuse me?”

Trevor’s leaning in close suddenly, mouth and teeth tracing the lines of his ribs, his chest, his neck. “If you were a girl, I could make you come again, and again. Just like this. And all the other fucking ways. Over and over and never fucking stop.”

And christ that hits right fucking home. The heat in Michael’s chest shoves low with a powerful kick that he just manages to wrestle back with a staggered chuckle. “Shit— I’ll do what I fucking can—“

Trevor grins against his neck and suddenly bites down. Hard. 

Michael swears aloud, but suddenly Trevor’s shifting, moving. He sits up, knocking the blankets back. He snatches Michael’s leg, getting a hand under his knee and angling it up and then his hand is driving into him again, twisting against the new leverage and Michael swears loudly. 

He’s got a new pace now, and it’s fucking _devastating_. Michael doesn’t have time to groan or growl or hardly even to fucking breathe. He’s panting against the feeling, against the snaking, thick, tight feeling of that pressure, that pace. It wraps all around him, pouring around the pressure under his cock like a keen draft of air on a fire, kicking the flames high and hot and vicious.

“Come on.” He doesn’t even know he’s said it until he hears his own broken voice in his ears.

Trevor’s pace falters. He feels him look up at him.

Michael swears, eyes locking hazy and lost on Trevor’s. He narrows them in a sudden furious dare. “Come the fuck on.”

Trevor stares back, his hair shoved around, sticking up at wild angles, expression reverent and lost and desperate. He swallows, snatches Michael’s hips, tugs himself forward, and with a stumbling motion and a broken sound messily eases himself in.

Michael gasps. He doesn’t know what he expected. But it certainly wasn’t this… _much_. 

It’s impossibly full, and impossibly warm, and when Trevor’s shaky hands manage to grip his knees and twist himself just right - _fuck_ , suddenly the fucking interest half the planet has in this damn state of affairs makes a hell of a lot more sense.

It’s unbelievable. Even now. Even like this. Michael can feel just how hard Trevor’s trying to hold back. Just how much he wants to watch _him_ feel everything, how much he wants to _feel_ him feel everything, and as fucking amazing as that feels, draped over Michael’s limbs warm and heavy and lush, he’s not letting him get away with it that fucking easily. Michael focuses, and with a hard swallow and a quick brace, snaps his hips forward.

“Fuck—!“ Trevor gasps.

His hands snatch wildly at Michael’s hips, his pace suddenly hammering into place. There’s no build up. No steady slope. Trevor falls head first, like a man rolling right down a fucking mountain-side. His hand wraps around Michael’s cock with a needy frantic urgency, pumping him as hard and fast as he rams into him and there’s nothing left for Michael to do but come apart at the fucking seams.

His orgasm hits him hard and fast, all that teasing and pressure and sensation suddenly shoving free in a confusing pile of tightness and heat. Michael rolls through it, feeling Trevor’s slick hand on his cock, his other hand suddenly faltering on his hips. He catches the short yell that bursts out of him, as his hips slam back a few more frantic times, and then he’s staggering to a faltering halt. 

Trevor takes a deep, shaky breath, and collapses, right into Michael’s chest.

Michael groans, half in irritation at the sudden pressure and half in lost hollowed out utterly spent sort of pleasure still pulsing around him. Trevor messily kisses his chest and rolls off to his own side. 

His side. Huh.

One of Trevor’s hands drags messily through Michael’s hair and to his everlasting fucking shock Michael twists into it, humming and letting his eyes slip shut. He can feel Trevor watching him calmly, idly. He lets his eyes peel open just enough to peer over. Trevor looks back at him. It’s an expression he’s seen before, only this time he’s not looking at the ocean, he’s looking right back at him. Michael feels himself smile, he rolls just enough to lean into his chest. 

He’s asleep again before he realizes it. And this time, he doesn’t dream.

 

Michael wakes up when the sun finally hits him, spilling lush and careless across the mattress. He opens his eyes. It’s bright. Very bright. And… neon yellow?

He reaches up and pulls the stickynote off his forehead. He blinks at the messy handwriting.

_”Be back later. You lazy fuck.”_

He peers over to the other side of the bed. The blankets are mussed, but he’s certainly alone now. He frowns at the note and reads it again, sitting up better. He reaches for his phone on the beside table. Another sticky note stares back at him from the screen.

_”There’s coffee downstairs. If you get your ass down there.”_

He actually does manage to get his ass down there. And the coffee is still almost warm, so he can at least tell himself he hasn’t slept in that long.

Michael pops the mug in the microwave and pulls it out again, wrapping a hand around the warmth of it. He considers for a moment before finally tossing a splash of whiskey in the mug too. He takes a sip as he shuffles in his boxers and a t-shirt out onto the back patio.

With a plop he collapses down into a pool chair and lets out a contented sigh. It’s later than he thought, but not too late yet. The sun’s still well above the horizon, but it’s passed the mid-point, and the light’s started to deepen and thicken in the air. The boozy coffee is comfortable and warm against his tongue. He leans back finally, nudging sunglasses down onto his nose and peering out over the top of the city.

He left his phone inside. Somehow that doesn’t matter too much. Nothing right now really matters too much, but in the complete opposite sort of way it hasn’t mattered before. He’s spent a lot of years feeling like things don’t matter because all the meaning’s been hollowed out of them, scooped clean and dumped away somewhere cold and worthless. It’s hard to feel like things matter when your own misery is rolling around in your head too loud to hear anything else. But now everything feels different.

Trevor’ll be back. He knows that with a certainly that’s strange and solid all at once.

It’s different. Things feel so different. Is that the big fat enigma of Happiness? It’s not exactly what he was expecting. He’s not jubilant. He’s not dancing down the streets like someone out of some 1940’s musical number, singing to the fucking pigeons. It’s not that sort of feeling. It’s… comfortable. He feels comfortable. He tries to remember the last time he ever felt honestly, totally comfortable. Has he ever? There was always something waiting in the shadows, ready to snap out and swallow him whole, and now, now there’s just… this. He’s not afraid. He feels calm. Shockingly calm for someone who spent most of the night and good chunk of the morning treating his dick like a lunatic meth head’s fucking merry-go-round.

He snorts into his coffee with a small smile. Funny. It’s that same sort of post-fuck feeling, well, the post-fuck feeling when you don’t have anything to feel guilty about. The feeling when that lull just sort of drapes over you, calm and deep and so damn contented. That’s the feeling that’s slung around him now. Peace. A kind of peace. And it’s been hanging around for a while now, maybe it’s decided to stick around. Maybe he’s not such a lost cause after all.

He sits up again, putting the coffee down on the stones under the chair with a dull sound. There’s only a few things left to do. It all seems so simple now, and with a chuckle he wonders how the hell he ever managed to think it was so damn complicated?

 

The sun is setting by the time he pulls up to the bar squished into the street corner. He shuts the door behind him, and takes in the evening for a moment. It feels just as it did all those weeks ago. The streetlights are starting to flutter to life, the night colors of the city painting across the dark sides of the car. He takes a deep breath, smiling back at the sounds and smells of the city. A little too deep of a breath. He pulls it back slightly with half a cough. Happiness is one thing, but christ, he’s not going to turn into a fucking transcendentalist jerk-off anytime soon. He feels good, real fucking good, but hobo piss still smells like hobo piss at the end of the day no matter how fucking happy you are, and there’s not much anyone’s ever doing about that. 

Michael sighs, turning back towards the building.

He shoves open the door, bell giving a light tinkle of welcome. It hasn’t changed much in the time that’s passed, and shit why would it? He peers around, and hey, his luck really is holding out on him today.

He slides into the bar and the bartender turns to face him.

He smiles. “Hey.”

The girl narrows her eyes. For a moment he doesn’t know if she recognizes him, but she tilts her head back an inch and a smirk inches up one corner of her lips. “Hey.”

“How’s it going?” Michael asks.

She holds his gaze and her own smirk. “Can’t complain. Whiskey?”

“Good memory,” Michael notes.

She smiles. “I told you. Bartender mojo.” She fills up a glass and slides it over to him.

He takes a good long sip before settling the glass down carefully. His shoulder is still feeling a little stiff and sore from his other afternoon activities, but he knows from experience that will go away soon enough.

She’s evaluating him. He can feel it, even though she’s not being too obvious, busy cleaning off the neighboring side of the counter.

“Well?” Michael asks.

“Well what?” she answers.

“What’s your take?”

“My take?”

“Last time I came in here, you seemed to have some pretty specific ideas about what was rolling around inside my head.”

“Is that right?”

“Mm,” Michael notes, having another long sip. “I thought I’d pop back for another evaluation.”

“Right. Because that’s what I’m here for,” she teases.

“Hey, you started it,” Michael answers.

She holds his look for a long time. Finally she answers, “You look good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah,” a smile eases up her face, from her mouth to her eyes. “Good. Better. How do you feel?”

Michael sighs, stretching back off the counter. “Good. Better.” Much fucking better. Impossibly fucking better. How had he not known? All those years, that _this_ was just that close, all it took was throwing open the door and falling inside.

“Well, glad to hear it,” she notes, grabbing a glass and wiping it off with a free hand.

Michael swallows the last of his whiskey with a hiss and stands up again.

“That all?” she asks.

“I think that’ll do it. For now,” Michael answers. He makes a show of patting his pockets. “Shit. You know what. I don’t have any cash. Don’t suppose I can tip with a check?”

The girl raises a suspicious eyebrow. “You want to _pay_ with a check? For one drink?”

“Oh would you look at that,” Michael continues, feeling inside one pocket. “Looks like I have just enough cash for the drink. Short on the tip. Check okay?”

She narrows her eyes at him. “It’s not a problem. Call it good.”

“No, no, no,” Michael continues, pulling out a checkbook and laying it down on the counter. “One thing I pride myself on, I _never_ forget to fucking tip.” He finishes scribbling on the paper and then tears it off, sliding it over.

The girl looks at it. Then at him. Then at the check.

“This,” her eyes are wide suddenly and more than a little concerned, “this is… my exact student debt.” 

And shit. He kinda underestimated how creepy that would seem. He rubs a hand against the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah. I may have, asked someone about that.”

She stares back at him. Slowly she starts sliding the check back in his direction.

“No, no,” Michael hurries pushing it back towards her. “Look,” he leans on the bar again, keeping a good distance between them just to be safe. “I just, I want you to know… you saved my life, okay? That night. When I came in here. I don’t mean that the way it sounds, I mean, you showed me that I _can_ have a life, that I can put it back in my hands and hold onto it just as tight as I fucking want. You did that. And I just needed you to know, that if you ever wonder if you made a difference, to anyone, you did. Not that I deserve it. Not that I come close to fucking deserving it. But I think I got it. And it’s because of you.”

She stares back at him. “That’s… look, I’m glad. I really am, but this is too much man, I can’t take this much money from anyone, let alone someone I don’t even fucking know—”

“Then don’t take it,” Michael insists firmly. “Call it a down payment.”

Her eyebrows rocket upward. “On _what_?”

“Services. I mean,” he catches, rubbing a hand down his face. “Look, when you finish up that degree, and you get setup in some office doling out the advice with a five-hundred-dollar-an-hour minimum, I’ll be the first one at the door. And I’ll be dragging a friend of mine right along with me, because trust me, you made a good start here, but the two of us, we’re in need from some grade-A fucking counseling.”

She’s starting to smile again. Thank god. “That right?”

“That’s a fucking guarantee,” Michael confirms. “So study up good.”

“You know,” she starts again, still eying him skeptically, “you’re lucky I have a good sense for people. How about this: we can shake on it. Verbal contract. I, Stephanie Daniels, accept this payment in lieu of future, strictly psychological, services of a therapeutic nature.” She extends a hand. 

“And I, Michael De Santa, future recipient of said services, accept.” He shakes it.

She’s already laughing. “Man, when this bounces this is going to make a fantastic story for the finances department.”

“When it doesn’t bounce, it’s going to make a fantastic story for anyone,” Michael notes.

“Well,” she looks back at him, “so what? See you in a year?”

“That’s right,” Michael smiles, he turns to go. Then turns back. “One more thing.”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course there’s one more thing.”

“It’s nothing really,” Michael says, turning back to the bar and grabbing the pen again and a nearby napkin. He scribbles out a few numbers. “If you were ever, uh, looking for someone to go out with or tweet-fight or whatever the fuck you kids do, maybe call this number.”

The girl blinks at it. “You’re… giving me a guy’s number?”

“Yeah,” Michael shrugs. “Look, throw it out if you want, seriously, but I just think you two might get along. That’s all. It’s nice to have someone you get along with.” He smiles. “Better than nice.”

She looks down at the napkin skeptically. “‘Franklin’?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure that’s not just some cartoon tractor on kid’s TV?”

Michael grins. “No, but that’s probably a decent icebreaker.” He turns back to the door. “See you, Stephanie.”

She watches him go. “See you, Michael.”

 

When he pulls back into the house Trevor’s truck is back in the driveway. The lights are on in the house. He leans against his car door and looks at that for a moment. There’s something about a house with the lights on that suddenly feels so comfortable. Part of him used to dread going back into that house when it looked like this at night, he’d sit out here, waiting for the feelings of misery and doubt and loss to drench him like a bucket left over the door as soon as he walked in. And god, there really is something backwards in his brain because Trevor Philips waiting inside your house should really be what clenches up your guts, not what makes you feel weird, impossibly, like you’re finally fucking home.

Michael pushes open the door, calling out. “Hey!”

There’s a rough, “hey!” back from what sounds like the kitchen. Michael follows the sound, turning in to see at least three cases of beer and other assorted worn cardboard boxes scattered across the floor.

“What’s this?” Michael asks.

Trevor pulls himself out of the fridge, eyes meeting his with a frantic sort of expression. “I, uh, I brought over some things.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Trevor manages, idly kicking a box by his feet. 

Michael starts to shrug off his jacket, eyeing the counter. “And what’s wrong with my beer.”

Trevor cracks a smile. “Is that a serious question?”

Michael smiles back. “Go fuck yourself.” He drops the jacket on the nearest chair and turns to look at the rest of the boxes, twisting his shoulder in Trevor’s direction.

“What _the fuck_ happened there?” Trevor’s voice instantly snaps, his booted feet moving right across the floor.

Michael twists his neck, eyeing where the bandage that covers the expanse of his deltoid peers out from under his t-shirt. “Oh that’s uh, _hey_ — take it easy!”

Trevor’s already locked his hands around his arm, twisting to see better, hiking his sleeve up to see the full damage. “Shit, if it was those fuckers again I swear to god—“

“It wasn’t,” Michael insists, easing his arm more comfortably into the warm rough weight of Trevor’s hands.

“Then what the hell—?“

“It’s a tattoo,” Michael says plainly.

Trevor stops. He peers back at him. “What’s that?”

“You deaf?” Michael smiles back smugly. “It’s a tattoo. I got a tattoo.”

“How fucking bored did you get when I fucked off?” Trevor glares.

Michael shrugs. “Eh, I don’t know. Seemed like a fun thing to do today. Anyways, have to admit I was feeling a little left out.” He eyes Trevor’s shoulder.

Trevor follows his gaze. He looks at his own left shoulder, there the tattoo of Michael’s name peer out from under his sleeve. He looks at Michael’s left shoulder where the bandage covers about an equal amount of skin. He stares back at him. “Is that right?”

“That’s right,” Michael says.

Trevor wets his lips once, a sort of gleeful curiosity is starting to glimmer in his eyes. “So, uh, when do those bandages come off?”

Michael shrugs. “The guy said four hours, so I guess give it one more.”

Trevor stares at him for a moment and then kisses him. 

It’s rushed and a little clumsy, but Michael turns to face him properly and things slot together just right. 

After a moment, Trevor pulls back, one hand still tight on Michael’s forearm. He clears his throat. “So, what?”

Michael looks back, already feeling a little switched on, gaze hanging on Trevor lazily. “So what?”

“This it?” Trevor asks roughly, glancing around the kitchen. “We what? We just fight and fuck and drink your shitty beer?”

“And your shitty beer,” Michael adds.

“And get coffee with your kids?”

“And watch movies with Tracey.”

“And go to fucking obnoxious restaurants whenever you want to?”

“And take the day off to crash army bases when you want to.” 

“And what?” Trevor half smiles. “Fucking happy ever after?”

Michael smiles back. “Fucking happy ever after.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Trevor holds his look for a long time. Michael doesn’t know if he realizes or not just how decent he looks when he genuinely smiles. 

“Well. Alright,” Trevor agrees finally.

Michael puts a hand on his hip. “Alright. Now where the fuck is my beer?”

Trevor shrugs, sliding a hand around the back of Michael’s neck. “Dumped it on the pool.”

“ _What?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After starting this story, I got an idea for one more that I had to write for these two. That's started [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5061610/chapters/11641405), if you're interested :)


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